Lost Tales of My Father
by Minyasta
Summary: These tales never found their way into the Red Book of Westmarch. The lost tales of Faramir's past, inherited by his only son. Tales that may serve to bridge the gap between the generations.
1. ‘Túlë mar! Túlë mar!’

Full Summary: These are the tales that never found their way into the Red Book of Westmarch. The tales of a father's secret past, inherited by his only son. Told through the memoirs of a young man by the name of Faramir and written in the words of Lord Elboron of Emyn Arnen, these tales give the lost account of one of Gondor's most beloved captains and of a father whose hidden youth may serve to bridge the gap between the generations.

Disclaimer: I do not now nor will I ever own _The Lord of the Rings _or its plot or any of its characters. Nor do I own any non-English languages that appear here. They're all Tolkien's, and no one can ever change that. : )

Author's Note: And speaking of Tolkien's languages—these characters may have a perfect knowledge of Elvish, but I do not. If there are any errors, especially in Elvish grammar, I apologize in advance.

* * *

_Lost Tales of My Father_

Chapter I – 'Túlë mar! Túlë mar!'

The men in front of me carry my father's body.

I do not weep. I am straight-backed and rigid and dignified. I am, as the circumstances require of me, solemn but reserved. Why is it, then, that the nausea of regret consumes my every thought, drives my mind wild with questions, invades every corner of my consciousness?

I think I'm doing a good job of hiding it. I think the pain is kept from my face. But my wife sees it and drifts nearer to me. She slips her hand inside mine, transferring her strength to me. She smiles weakly, but I cannot. Our son walks behind, and I draw comfort from the stillness of his presence. On my right forefinger rests the crafted signet ring of the Stewards.

It is such a heavy burden—one that I somehow did not expect at eighty-one years of age. The guilt of this selfish thought reminds me: My father had the burden at thirty-six. I've seen more than twice that count of summers, had more than twice the amount of experience, and had more than twice as long to prepare myself for the task that I knew would one day fall to me. I have also known Elessar, my liege lord, all my life. The King himself walks further behind in the procession. Is it my imagination that I can feel his old, sad eyes watching me?

A hand falls lightly upon my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze, and I turn to see her. Tears course down my sister's face, lit by the flickering of torches along the walls. Suddenly it strikes me how much like our father Nimhiril looks. Her raven tresses settle long and lank about her shoulders. Her expressive grey eyes are filled with the same soft kindness and wisdom, as if they are ageless. Her entire semblance bears the air of a scholar; her arm is cocked in an angle, as if always ready to hold a book. But she has our mother's sharp chin and firm jaw.

As I step through a muddied puddle on the path down Rath Dínen, I glance at my reflection. I can see nothing of my father. I never wanted to be like him, but the comparison pains me now. I see none of the gentle compassion for which he was loved, nor do I behold a shrewd gaze. No intelligent, angled features. None of the quiet precision he held as a swordsman and a Steward. No learnèd, bookish appearance. Nothing.

"_Úne dim_." Nimhiril takes her hand from my shoulder and smiles even through her unshed tears. "_Nalye Faramiro_," she finishes in perfect Quenya before stepping back and fading once more into silence.

I never fully grasped Quenya; Sindarin is by far the more graceful tongue. Nimhiril, like my father, learned both while I was sent to Minas Tirith to serve in the Citadel Guard and then on to the Black Lands to serve in the Great Eastern War. But I do know enough Quenya to understand most of her words. What I do not know, I can guess. _Be not sad. Thou art Faramir's._

Is that what I truly wish for? To be known as Faramir's own child? Or do I only fear that the love that the people of Gondor held for my father will not be passed unto me because I inherited none of his traits—the traits they held so dear?

The procession passes through the grey twilight and beneath the great archway of Rath Dínen, and we turn to march onward, down to the chambers of the Stewards deep within the Silent Street. Motionless soldiers stand at intervals, guarding our passageway. As we pass by the tombs of my ancestors, I can only stare at their carven likenesses, each poised somberly over its respective sepulcher.

One day I will join these ranks of stone, leaving behind no legacy save for my only son. The resolve that I spent hours building up withers at the thought. How can I face this? How can I confront the shame of my regret, with everyone's eyes fixed on me?

The company finally comes to a halt beside the stone tablet beneath which the remains of the Lord Denethor, my grandfather, still lie. Eryndil, the Captain of the White Company, has the weepiest eyes of all as he and the other men lay my father's body down. The tomb was built beside Denethor's and, on the other side, my mother's.

Slowly, fear halting my breath, I step up to my father's body. My hand leaves my wife's like the parting of a tear from a sorrowful eye. Nimhiril stands beside me now, crying soft, silent tears.

My head bows in pain, and I clutch my chest as a tide of fresh grief and remorse threatens to consume me. It slams against my wavering reservations like a battering ram. Still I hold back my tears. I cannot cry. I will not. I will _not_.

Eryndil's sobs are like plaintive cries, seeking an answer. I can hear weeping and moaning from further back in the procession, and I suddenly realize how many people loved my father. They loved him more dearly than I ever did.

Elessar steps forward with Queen Evenstar, sorrow glistening in his ancient eyes.

"I fought with his father," Elessar says, "and I fought with his brother. But I was never given the honor of fighting with him." A sigh escapes the King's lips. "This knowledge is something that I almost came to regret when news was brought to me of Faramir's passing. Almost, I repeat. Many say that the true essence of a man is revealed in combat. Nay, it was not so for Faramir. He was no coward; he fought for many a year on Gondor's frontier during the trials of the War of the Ring. But he was no soldier."

I watch silent tears trickle down Nimhiril's pale face, and Eryndil lowers his face into his hands. I have to struggle harder yet to keep my eyes dry, staring at my father's unmoving eyes, closed to the world forever. I struggle, and I listen to Elessar speak.

The King has always understood my father, perhaps better than anyone else alive. Even my mother frequently grew frustrated with his whims or confused by his mannerisms. I never tried to understand him, which I regret now. But there was a bond between my father and Elessar that I could not have explained upon being asked. I am certain that every word that comes out of the King's mouth now is a word of truth.

"Faramir showed his quality in the things he did without a sword in his hand. His devotion to his office and to his family was unsurpassed by that of any whom I have met in my lifetime. His cleverness with language, his fascination with lore, his shrewd discerning of the hearts of men, and his compassion that outweighed all else." Elessar speaks smoothly, but he closes his eyes as if he is in great pain. "He was a man of greater virtue than many who walk this earth, and he was a good friend."

Devotion to his family. Why did I never see such devotion? Was I blinded by my stubbornness? Hadn't he tried to show his affection for me, and didn't I turn it away? Hadn't he tried to talk to me time and time again, and didn't I refuse? I was too old to waste my time arguing with him, I'd thought, but had that feeling risen from nothing more than the bitterness and loneliness of my youth?

"He has now passed away from this land of mortals—passed on to the Halls of Mandos." I struggle to pull myself back to Elessar's words. "There he will be blessed, and it is not for us to decide that he should still be with us. For death itself was presented as a Gift of Men, not as a curse." His eyes meet mine knowingly. "I beg that it puts grieving minds at ease to know that Faramir, who dwelt here carrying a greater burden than most, is at rest with his heart and his mind and his soul."

The King falls into still silence, and for many long moments not a sound disturbs the chamber. Hesitantly, I step forward once more and take from my father's chill hands the white rod of his office, which is now mine to bear. It feels heavy in my hands.

All of a sudden, the sweet peal of a voice lifted in song blooms beside me. I jerk my head around to see Nimhiril with her eyes closed and lips moving to form words in what I know to be Quenya. I cannot catch all of the words, but her voice is so beautiful that I do not care.

"_Pella nen, pella nórë,_

_pella nár, pella vilya._

'_Túlë mar! Túlë mar!'_

_nalla lo fëa._

_Rokkomel lina, Atar;_

_vana, mí collo ninquë._

_Pella ëar, pella mor,_

_tenn' i norë, Valinor._"

At last they fall—the tears that I have held back for so long. At first it is only one, then two, and then a multitude of teardrops falling from my eyes onto the lifeless body of my father. With a gentle hand on my shoulder, Elessar pulls me back away from the tomb so that I am next to my wife and my son again.

My entire body shakes as Eryndil and his guards lift my father once more, ceremoniously open the stone vault, and then lower him into the gaping black hole that swallows him up. I lean forward to catch the last glimpse of my father's solemn face before they slide the lid over the tomb with a grating _thud_.

My knuckles turn as white as the rod that I clutch to my breast. A short, piercing cry of agony tears itself from my lips. As my wife draws me into her loving arms, I can do nothing but hold her and dry my tears with her golden hair.

"Laurelindë," I whisper for her ears alone, "what does any of this mean?"

Laurelindë answers just as softly: "It means that you are your father's son. It means that you are taking your place in the world, as every man must."

I look up and see Barahir, my seventeen-year-old son. He casts his eyes on the floor, but I can tell that he was staring at me moments before. He has never seen me so weak, I think, and I vow that he will never see me this weak again.

"Elboron." I turn towards the gentle voice and see the sad eyes of the King. Queen Evenstar takes my wife by the hand and murmurs to her softly in Elvish. "Heed well my words: Faramir is at peace at last, after having suffered greatly in this world. Your father was a wise and a just man, and he will be received with honor in the Halls of Awaiting."

"I know this, Elessar," say I, turning to face my King without drying my tears. "It is for selfish need only that I shed tears. Selfish regret…"

"Death is not an end, Elboron." My eyes turn to the face of the Queen as she speaks. "It is merely the beginning of a new life. I surrendered all the ages of this world to live only one with those whom I love. To celebrate one life with my husband, my son, and my daughters." She shares a glance with my wife—her daughter. "The grace of the Valar will protect Faramir as it protects us all."

She puts one slender, delicate hand to my cheek and continues in Sindarin. "_Grieve not for those who have drifted under the undying grace of the Valar, nor for thyself,_" she says. "_Only live and be free, and then shalt thou find peace within thyself._"

"_May it be that we all find such peace,_" Elessar adds in Sindarin as well. I swear that he can see deeper into my being than any other man alive. With a move that is as surprising as it is unexpected, he pulls me close and clasps me in a firm embrace. When he pulls away, I can see a deep sorrow in his eyes, and I know that I am not the only man who grieves for himself.

"My grandfather once saved his life," Eryndil is telling a handful of his guards as I gradually focus my attention on my surroundings once more. His voice is quavering but calmer than it was. "I heard the story so many times in my childhood that I can almost see it in my mind's eye as a memory of my own. During the Siege of Gondor, the Lord Denethor was driven from sanity by the ruin of his sons. Yet though Faramir was mortally wounded, he lived still. Denethor in his madness made to burn himself and his son alive…

"But Peregrin son of Paladin, _Ernil i Pheriannath_, found my grandfather, who was then in the Citadel Guard. Of course, my grandfather was forbidden to leave his post without the permission of the Lord Denethor, but when _Ernil i Pheriannath _told him that Lord Faramir was in mortal danger, he hurried to Lord Faramir's aid and helped to save his life."

My eyes find those of Elessar, who is smiling softly as if in reminiscence. I, too, have heard the tale countless times, and I have passed it on to Barahir. Of how Beregond, with the aid of Peregrin and Mithrandir, came to my father's rescue. Of how he slew men in Rath Dínen where we stand even now, violating the sanctity of Silent Street. Of how King Elessar, in his endless mercy, rather than putting Beregond to death as law required, granted him the position of Captain of the White Company that would serve as my father's personal guard in Emyn Arnen.

Eryndil's family has done much for my father. It began with Beregond and continued with Bergil, Eryndil's own father, who gave his life defending Faramir from a rampant mountain troll that blundered its way into Ithilien one day many decades ago. Now as I look at the young Eryndil, weeping silently into his hands, I cannot help but think that one day he might give his life for mine. I pray to the Valar that such a sacrifice is never needed.

And yet, we all have our sacrifices to make, do we not?

* * *

Note: I wrote the song in Quenya seen above. This is its loose translation into English:

_Pella nen, pella nórë,_

(Beyond the water, beyond the land,)

_pella nár, pella vilya._

(beyond the fire, beyond the air.)

'_Túlë mar! Túlë mar!'_

('Come home! Come home!')

_nalla lo fëa._

(calls thy spirit.)

_Rokkomel lina, Atar;_

(Horse-love sings, Father;)

_vana, mí collo ninquë._

(fair-haired, in the cloak of white.)

_Pella ëar, pella mor,_

(Beyond the sea, beyond the dark,)

_tenn' i norë, Valinor._

(unto the land, the land of the Valar.)


	2. A Son's Inheritance

Chapter II – A Son's Inheritance

_He had been fighting in Nurn beyond the Ephel Dûath for so many long years that he had forgotten the peaceful sanctity of Emyn Arnen and the surrounding princedom. From this place enemies had been driven long ago. Little disturbed the hills of Ithilien in these days. The forestry sprouted freshly green now with the budding of spring, and the people were happy and content with their safe lives in their wooded realm._

_Yet he was not content, nor would he ever be as long as he remained in the halls of his father. An uneasy energy existed in this place while the two of them dwelt there together. He remembered his arrival, when he had deliberately avoided his father. He did not regret having done so. He knew that by avoiding his father he had also avoided a nasty argument._

"_I should not need to avoid him, as if I were a child who had done something worthy of reprimand," Elboron muttered to himself. "I am a grown man, and well beyond the years of impetuous youth! I should be able to speak my mind without fear of a lecture from my father!"_

"_Lord Elboron!"_

_The Steward's son looked up from his feathered quill with a grimace of irritation on his face. A guard dressed in full plate armor stood panting in his doorway._

"_What is it?" Elboron asked. "I told Eryndil not to send any guards to me. I wish to be left alone until I return to Minas Tirith…"_

"_My Lord! Please!" gasped the guard, clutching his chest as he tried to catch his breath. "Come quickly! The Lord Faramir! H-He has collapsed!" Elboron turned chalk white and rose from his chair. "The healers, they…they are trying, but they…! You must come! Now! He is asking for you, my Lord!"_

_Elboron dashed past the guard, who followed behind him. "Where?" Elboron asked, sudden fear gripping his heart. "Where is he?"_

"_The gardens, my Lord!"_

_Elboron flew down the halls. The closer he got to the gardens, the more people were scurrying about in a frenzy, shouting to one other. He rounded the last corner and burst out beneath a stone archway. Before him lay the entryway into the gardens of Emyn Arnen. He cursed the creativity of the gardeners when he realized that a dozen ten-foot-high walls stood between him and his stricken father. Darting quickly along paths that he had navigated since childhood, he came at last to the spot where he knew his father would be—the clearing in the very center of the gardens._

_Many flustered healers gathered around the figure lying inert on the warm stone._

"_My…my son… Find him… I must—"_

"_My Lord, relax. Focus on your breathing. Please."_

"_Elboron…I must s-see him…"_

"_Father, I am here," said Elboron, shoving aside the healers to kneel at his father's side. "I am here. Elboron, your son. I have come."_

"_Elboron…" Faramir reached up with one hand to touch his eldest child's face with a shaking hand. His breath grew fainter, and the healers gibbered that they must attend to the Steward immediately. "You were always…your mother's child… A fighter first and last… Éowyn's darling boy…my son…"_

_Elboron sought words to ease the pain on his father's white face but could find none. He, unlike his father, had never been good at finding the right words to say. There was so much that needed to be said, so much damage that had been done over the years that needed to be repaired. Father and son had hardly even seen one another's faces in over six years, and now Elboron felt a tense pain in his own stomach to know that this was the last time he would ever look upon his father while Faramir still had breath in him._

"_Father…" stammered Elboron. "What would you have me do? Ask it of me and I will do it."_

_Faramir smiled, but then withdrew the smile again as another shadow of pain flicked across his brow. "Nothing… There is nothing more that I can ask from you… Only that you forgive an old man's folly…please…"_

_The desperation in his father's eyes rocked Elboron to the core. He did not understand, could never understand, but he nodded instantly and took his father's hand in his own. "I forgive. I forgive you, Father."_

"_I-I will always…love you…Elboron…"_

_Elboron held back his tears as he watched his father struggling with the pain. He would never live with himself if the last image his father saw was of his son shedding tears like a woman. The healers crowded around again, insistent on giving the Steward aid, but Elboron refused to release his father's hand. Faramir waved the healers off weakly._

"_Mithrandir once told me…" Faramir began, fading with each moment, "…that when a man dies…his body remains broken…but his soul departs…for another world. A world where all turns to silver glass, and when it rolls back…you see…you see white shores…and green fields…under a swift sunrise… 'And that isn't a terrible fate,' he would tell me… 'That isn't a terrible fate…'"_

_For the first time since childhood, Elboron could not have been prouder to have a father as brave as his._

"—boron! Elboron! Elboron!"

I gasp and sit up in bed, sweat beading into my eyes. My heart is racing as if I just experienced a nightmare. Laurelindë is at my side, asking if I need a drink, if I am all right, if it was about my father. I cannot answer her. Instead, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, pacing around the room restlessly. But I can feel her eyes on me, watching, knowing—Yes, she knows.

"_Elboron, it is not dawn yet,_" she says to me in Sindarin. "_You have slept restlessly through the night. If you do not sleep well, you shall not be fit to see my father early as he requested_."

"_Yet he has slept no better, I think,_" I reply, and I can tell that she knows I am right. "_He hardly spoke to me after the funeral._"

"_It was not out of resentment, but out of grief—_"

"_I know. There was a friendship there stronger than I knew. Elessar—_" Abruptly I stop and drop back into my first tongue. "Elessar knew him better than I. He will always know him better than I." Knowing that there are no words to deny this, Laurelindë is silent. I dress as quickly as I can and leave our rooms.

The Citadel is near to empty. The Fountain Guards are veiled behind the blackness of the night. There is nothing for me to do at this hour but wander the Citadel of Minas Tirith, as lonely as the first twilight star. I stand alone, leaning over the stone wall surrounding the Citadel. The cold breeze whisking across the Pelennor sends a cold shiver down my spine.

Why did we never speak, my father and I? Was the fault his or mine? Or were our differences simply too great to overcome? Was his last plea for forgiveness from his heart? Was there ever really anything to forgive? I ask the questions of the stars, but they have no answer for me.

"Was it a lie?" I demand of the darkness, gazing upon the city from atop the seventh level. "Was it naught but falsehood? Shall I never know?"

"_You shall know._"

I turn, breathing shallowly, to face Elessar. "How, _Ada_?" I beg of him, clutching my black robe about me to keep out the chill air. "Tell me! Tell me how! How shall I know?"

He places a small, ebony chest into my appealing arms, his aged hand lingering for a moment on the lid.

"Elboron, there are many secrets in this world that are only secrets because of one person's will. There are many secrets that should not be kept secret. But the sanctity of a man's heart is one secret that must always be kept by its guardian. The soul is not a thing with which men may trifle.

"Elboron, I give this to you, as you are the sole heir of that guardianship. A father's tales are kept by his sons, and of Faramir's you are the only surviving son. Even I have never dared to touch the latch of this chest, though it has caused me much grief."

"My liege…what is this?" I ask, fingering the chest with great care, as if the burden might suddenly burst into flames or disappear upon a whim.

"This chest has been in my keeping since before you were born. I found it floating down the Anduin when I was away on a hunting trip with Faramir not long after I came to my throne. As you see, it bears his initial." Elessar gestures, and I see it: a flourished _F_ engraved in the leather binding. "When I asked him if he knew what it was, he grew pale. He would not speak to me of it. He bade me cast it off at once and let it continue its journey down to the distant Belegaer. I agreed and tossed it back in the waters; but when he was not looking, I retrieved it. From that day till now, I have kept this chest. I have waited for the day when his heir would inherit the mystery.

"I know nothing about the contents of this chest. It may contain nothing at all—naught but cobwebs and spiders after years of misuse. But it may contain the answer to your questions. Either way, it is yours to deal with now as you will."

My hands tremble as I draw the precious treasure in to my chest and begin to thank Elessar. Before I can speak, he holds up his hand.

"Remember this, Elboron—you may share any wisdom that you find within that chest with anyone you like, but I beg you remember your father's wishes. He desired no one to find this chest. Think well before you reveal to anyone—even to me—things that should not be revealed."

I pause, suddenly uncertain, but I straighten my stance and nod my head. I can see my breath in the cool spring air. The sun is just beginning to rise on the White City. I look up to see it airbrush the tip of the Tower of Ecthelion with gold, setting the sable-and-silver standard of the King to blaze with fire in the dawn. When I look down again to thank Elessar, he is already gone.

Although fear quickens my heart, I kneel to the stone pavement and lean over the curious black chest engraved with my father's initial. Why would he have hidden this, I wonder? I set shaking fingers to the latch and fumble with it to undo the mechanism. With an aged, rusted _chink_, the latch pops open. The cracked lid parts a tiny bit from the chest. I swallow, and—

A sound erupts from the roof of a small home several levels down. My hand freezes inches above the lid of the box as a second cock crow joins the first. The Fountain Guards are revealed—standing at their posts, motionless—by the dawning light. The very eye of Eru himself seems to peep down on me, eager to realize this long-kept secret.

I close the lid, clasp the latch, and tuck the chest under my arm where it is safe from the prying eyes of the world. My heart beats against it—longing, longing to open the chest of my inheritance. The dark secrets of my father's unspoken past could lie inches from my very breast!

"Ho, Lord Elboron!" calls one of the Guards from where he stands. "Do you need help?"

"Nay," I reply, clutching the chest harder beneath my silken robe. "Nay."

I move swiftly back towards the Tower; the doors are now flung wide, and a slow stream of servants coming in and out starts the activity for the day. They inquire politely as to my early rising, my sleep, my appetite—all little nuances that mask the real question: Have you been well, Lord Elboron, since your father's passing?

"Elessar?" I call as I step cautiously into the throne room. He is nowhere in sight, but I know that he can't have gone very far in the few seconds that I was distracted. I catch a servant by the arm, and he turns, clicks his heels, and asks what he can do.

"Do you know where the King is?" I ask him, frowning. I try to conceal the chest beneath my robe, but the chains on its latch clink together. The servant eyes me oddly, but I insist he answer.

"I have not seen him this morning, my Lord," the servant answers. "I imagine he is still in his chambers."

I thank the servant and send him on his way. I know that if the King is making himself scarce it means that he does not want to be found. I turn down a corridor and pull myself tiredly up the steps that lead to my rooms in the Tower.

Laurelindë is not in my chambers, and I am grateful. Though she is grieving for me, and I know that she is only trying to help me, I just need time. Barahir has not come to see me; we have not spoken since the funeral. He is dealing with his own grief, and I am trying to give him his space to handle his feelings like a man.

So there is no one here but myself. No one to steal the secrets.

Before I can stop to think, before I can even question myself, I pull the chest from under my arm, set it on my desk, and flip the latch. The lid bearing the initial _F_ swings up, and I lean over to peer into the shadowy realm of the chest…

* * *

_Ada_

(Father – in this case, Father-in-Law)


	3. If Only

Chapter III – If Only

"The healers don't know what killed him." I press my palm hard to my forehead, forcing back a headache. "It all happened so fast… They say it might have had something to do with his heart. He'd been pushing himself harder, too hard—ever since I left, they say." I swallow down the guilt with a swill of ale. "It was foolish of him. He was one hundred and twenty years old…"

"I am so sorry, _mellon nin_," says Eldarion. "If I had known, I would not have tarried on my return from Lossarnach. Why don't you and I take a trip to Rohan to visit your cousin, Elfwine? It may help you to get your mind off of this…"

"I cannot afford to leave Gondor for that long anymore," I reply, a tinge of irritation creeping into my tone at Eldarion's ignorance of my new duties. "I am now the Steward and the rightful Prince of Ithilien, and with that comes heavy responsibility to the King. Elessar has given me leave for this past fortnight, and I am grateful, but I cannot take any more time." Eldarion says nothing, but he releases his breath and sends a puff of smoke from his pipe curling through the air.

"Please understand… It is not as though I do not wish to accompany you to Edoras. But I must return to Emyn Arnen, today. I have a meeting with Legolas and the Elven Council of Ithilien, and…" I falter only briefly, caught by a sudden surge of unexpected emotion. "…I must go through…everything…of his…"

Eldarion tries to meet my eyes, but I look away, loathe for him to see my weakness. "I understand," he murmurs. "Know that I am here for you, if you need anything at all."

"You won't be here for long," I tell him mournfully. "Elessar will send you to Nurn in my place, no doubt. We have not spoken of it, but I can see the conflict behind his eyes, and the Captains whisper, and the Queen grows quiet at supper."

Stunned, Eldarion falls silent again for many minutes. I can see the surprise behind his eyes—surprise, and then acceptance.

"It is to be expected," he says at last. "There is none other to lead the army, save perhaps the Prince of Dol Amroth, and he is away with the delegation in Harad."

"My son will go with you."

"Barahir?"

"Yes."

"He is a strong for a boy his age, and as skilled as his father. He will be an asset to Gondor in Nurn."

"You will watch over him for me, won't you?"

"Of course, _mellon nin_."

Again, the inevitable silence takes hold of us. I am proud to have my son fighting for Gondor, but I cannot grasp the fact that I will not be returning to my men. They were my family when I was hundreds of leagues from Minas Tirith. They were by my side through fever and wounds. They were always willing to do ten times more than I dared ask of them.

"Are you all right?" Eldarion asks, leaning forward to peer into my face with his searching gaze.

"Yes," I answer him immediately, wiping a hand across my tired eyes. "Yes…and no. Battle has been my life for so long…and I liked it that way. I have grown accustomed to the sight of black mountains and ash-choked sky…" My fingers curl into a tense knot. "I am not suited for such politics and scholarly work. It is terrible, but… A secret corner of my heart wishes that I could surrender the Princedom and the Stewardship, and return to Mordor where I could forget…"

"Forget what, Elboron?"

My gut contracts painfully, and though I gave Elessar my word that I would be careful, surely nothing can be wrong with telling the King's son and my dearest friend…

"Eldarion, I must speak of it to someone." He looks at me curiously, and I lean down to pull the black chest from under my desk where I left it. "Elessar gave this to me the day after my father's funeral. He said he found it in the Anduin and saw my father's initial on it. He said it might contain some of my father's possessions—personal items that might give me some clue about his past. And I looked, but…" Eldarion holds out his hands for the chest, frowning slightly, and I hand it over to him. He flicks open the latch, lifts the lid, and glances down.

"There's nothing here," he observes quietly.

"I should have known before!" I rise from my seat and pace back and forth across the room. "I should have known that my father would have burned anything before he tossed the chest in the Anduin. It just seemed… I don't know. It seemed like a chance, a hope that I might learn something about him. But to expect secrets from an age-old chest was, perhaps, in hindsight, expecting too much." I stop pacing, facing away from Eldarion. "I doubt now that I will ever know my father…"

"So you would rather forget about him?"

"Yes!" I snap, slamming my fist down hard onto the desk. An inkwell jumps and spills all over one of the parchments spread across the surface, and I curse loudly. That was the message from Legolas Greenleaf of Ithilien, giving his condolences—and his sincerest apology for being unable to attend the funeral—and requesting an audience with myself as soon as I am able. I right the bottle and snatch a cloth to clean the mess, but Eldarion catches my arm and stops me.

"Elboron, peace!" I pull away from him and continue to mop up the inky puddle. "Stop, I say! As the lawful Prince of Gondor, I charge thee: Stop!"

I pause, wipe my blackened fingers on the cloth, and throw it onto the floor disgustedly. Eldarion is my closest confidant, and he will one day inherit the throne of Gondor and Arnor, but I despise him when he uses his authority to sway me as a friend.

"What do you want from me?" I demand, taking a step away from him. "I am trying to deal with everything at once, and you are getting in my way!" I hesitate and add as an unkind afterthought, "Your_ Highness_."

"If I am getting in your way, it is only because you are trying to avoid me, my _friend_." Eldarion levels a look on me that is, in many ways, as intimidating as his father's. "We have known each other since we were both tots. Have you forgotten how well I know you? You are trying to pretend that you have everything under control, but you don't. I will not stand by and watch you feign that you are cool and collected when underneath I can see the roiling confusion you feel."

My face reddens with embarrassment and shame. How can everyone see exactly the thing that I am trying to hide from them? Am I so weak now that I cannot conceal my own thoughts? Are my feelings so openly read, as if my heart were a book?

"I will speak with my father," Eldarion continues, softer. "He will give you leave from duty for another week at the least. You will return to Emyn Arnen, but you will not meet with the Elven Council. You will do nothing but deal with your emotions until you find some way to reconcile yourself with your father's memory."

"My office as Steward is highly essential to the peaceful governing of Gondor," I tell him stiffly. "My position in the Councils of Ithilien and Minas Tirith is not easily neglected. Elessar and the other lords rely on the Steward's presence. The Steward is the odd number, so there will never be a tied vote."

"You will not be neglecting your duties. You will be taking care of something more important." The pity in his eyes is nearly enough to choke me. "I will sit on my father's council as the odd number until you are able to return to your responsibilities. Elboron, you should not be ashamed to need time to reflect after the death of a loved one. This is what friends are for."

It is not the death of a loved one that requires my reflection, I long to say. It is the death of one whom I should have loved but did not. I cannot get the image out of my head of my father's panicked eyes…the desperate need for my forgiveness. It was not his fault! screams my heart. Not his, but mine!

"And Elboron, I think you should tell my father that you found nothing in the chest. He would want to know," Eldarion advises me.

"I could not bear to see his disappointment." I shake my head wearily. "He seemed so hopeful when he gave it to me."

I wonder now how long Elessar has held that hope, or even if I simply imagined it. Perhaps he knew that the chest was empty. Could there have been a secret lesson behind the presentation?

Yet there was sincerity in his eyes, also—the sincerity in asking me to guard my father's secrets as he had for so long. If only more secrets had been found…

If only…

_:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:_

At the crest of the wooded hillock, Eryndil brings us to a halt. Laurelindë and I rein in our proud horses beside him and look down at the city of stone that lies nestled in the dell between two green knolls. Each hill is crowned with a ring of trees. It is the city Imeryn—the dwelling place of the Steward of Gondor, Lord of Emyn Arnen, and Prince of Ithilien.

"Welcome home, my Prince," says Eryndil softly.

I gaze upon my city and cannot remember the last time I called it my home. It must have been in the distant past, long before my marriage and Barahir's birth. Thinking of my son reminds me painfully of his silent farewell when Laurelindë and I departed from Minas Tirith. I kissed him on his forehead and blessed him, but he spoke not a word. Was that to be the last time I saw him before he was sent to war? Was it to be the last time I ever saw him? Death seems so close a thing to me now that I cannot seem to escape it.

We ride down into the dell, and the gates of Imeryn are thrown wide to the chorusing trumpets that herald the arrival of the Prince and Princess of Ithilien. Children scatter flowers in front of my path before skipping back to their parents, blushing with self-accomplishment as only innocent babes can. I watch each mother smile down upon her child's sweet expression and each father swing his son or daughter up into his loving arms so the child can see the procession better.

Was there such a moment from my childhood that I could not now recall? Were there moments of tenderness between my father and I, or was there always such animosity? Was I once a young boy startled as my father swept me up into his strong arms?

There is a hesitance, either real or imagined, in the eyes of my people—a reluctance to accept me as their new Steward, Lord, and Prince because of the attachment that grew from seventy years of my father's lordship. There is an entire generation here that has never known a Steward other than my father. These people have not seen me in over forty years, for until recently I have not been to this place since childhood.

Yet they cheer, and they laugh, and they sing. Eryndil leads the White Company proudly forward, and Laurelindë and I follow behind the pure white standard of the House of the Stewards. I acknowledge the crowd politely but can muster little more than a few half-hearted waves of my hand. I would rather have faced a large band of starving Variags than the stretch of paved street between me and the great domed bastion where Laurelindë and I will live.

One young man steps forward in front of my guard, and Eryndil raises his hand to stop us. The man falls to one knee before my horse, places both hands over his breast, and turns his face up to me.

"_Ernil_," he says, drawing his sword and raising it up to me. "I desire to swear fealty to thee. Please, accept me as one of thy noble guardians."

My eyes flicker first to Laurelindë's smiling face, then to Eryndil's impassive one, and finally back to the young man kneeling before me. I can feel the eyes of hundreds of people fixed solely on me, and I wonder what my father would have done in this situation. Is that what they are expecting of me? To do as my father would have?

"What is your name?" I ask the young man, suppressing the fear within me that I will not be accepted by my people.

"Elfin, son of Elemir, " he answers me, hope shining in his eyes.

I dismount and take his sword in my hands. He places his hand on the hilt. "Elfin son of Elemir, speak after me."

As I speak the words of the ancient vow, the young man repeats: "Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord, Prince, and Steward of this land, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world shall end. So say I, Elfin son of Elemir of Ithilien of the men of Gondor."

In reply, I say my own part: "And this do I hear, Elboron son of Faramir, Lord of Emyn Arnen, Prince of Ithilien, Steward of the High King, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valor with honor, oath-breaking with vengeance." I hand his sword back to him. "Rise, Elfin son of Elemir, and join the White Company of Emyn Arnen."

The watching crowd bursts into raucous applause and outcries, and I can see the approval on Eryndil's face. I mount my horse, and we continue on the march down the streets to my new home, this time with Elfin walking at my side.

"Well done," whispers Laurelindë softly.

I say nothing in reply. I did only as my heart directed, and I believe that my father would have done the same.

_:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:_

The castle of Imeryn seems empty now and cold; for the attendants are silent, and the healers avoid me. It is as if the spirit of this place has been drained with the passing of my father, as if the brightness of his home died with him. I never before realized just how much of his being my father gave to his job and his home. I was blind—I could only see the man I thought had been denying me, when really it was I who denied him.

The servants bustle about their duties, rearranging the furniture in my father's room to suit my tastes, carefully stashing all of his formal ceremonial robes in a corner of my closet, and sorting through neat piles of old letters my father exchanged with various nobles. As I watch it, I can almost feel the presence of my father dissipating with each slight change. There is going to be nothing left of him when Laurelindë and I move into these quarters.

"My Lord Elboron." I turn towards the door as another servant enters, this one clutching a small, dusty, leather-bound book in his hands. "My Lord, you asked us to clean out the attics. This was found beside the upstairs fireplace, along with a stack of old scrolls, covered in soot but mostly unharmed except by dust."

"Old correspondences, surely," I say dismissively, and I sigh. I could read through all of his notes, searching for some morsel of knowledge to glean from them, but I haven't the time or the energy, and I doubt that I would find anything. My father seems to have been exceptionally careful with any mementos that revealed his true past "I have no use for them. I told your overseer to dispose of all such things."

"We were about to, Prince, but then…I looked inside, and…" The servant hesitates uncertainly, then holds the old book out to me. I take it from him and peruse the first few lines.

All of my blood seems to rush away from my head, and I reel dizzily on my feet, gasping in disbelief. The servant steps quickly forward to help guide me into a seat, where I lay back weakly and grasp the book with shaking hands, my heartbeat quickening.

"There is more, you said?" I ask breathlessly. "There are scrolls?"

"Yes, Prince Elboron."

"Bring them to me, immediately." The servant turns and leaves me with a bow. Trembling, I flip open the cover once more and scan the page. Tears trickle down my cheek, and for once I do not try to stop them. The workers give me strange glances from the corners of their eyes and whisper amongst themselves. Unable to contain my ecstasy and joy, I read the first lines again.

_**26 Girithron, T.A. 3000**_

_**I am Faramir, son of Denethor, and stories have been my refuge for as long as I can remember. Mithrandir, my faithful mentor, has taught me the art of the Elvish language and given to me as many books as I can devour. When last we spoke, he said this to me: "Remember, Faramir, that no matter how many books you read, you must still author your own life." It is with this purpose in mind that I now compose a story of my own—my story.**_

* * *

_mellon nin_

(my friend)

_Ernil _

(Prince)

_Girithron_

(December)


	4. Noble Standards

Author's Note: This is a newly updated version of Chapter IV (updated 5.30.08) that differs markedly from the original. To find out more about why the changes were made, please see my author profile. To reread the original version of Chapter IV, follow the link provided in my author profile. I would love to get messages from you all about what you think of the new chapter and whether or not you think it is better than the original. In the meantime, enjoy! May the hair on your toes never fall out! - Minyasta

* * *

Chapter IV – Noble Standards

_**26 Girithron, T.A. 3000**_

_**I am Faramir, son of Denethor, and stories have been my refuge for as long as I can remember. Mithrandir, my faithful mentor, has taught me the art of the Elvish language and given to me as many books as I can devour. When last we spoke, he said this to me: "Remember, Faramir, that no matter how many books you read, you must still author your own life." It is with this purpose in mind that I now compose a story of my own—my story.**_

_**I have no knowledge of how to begin, and so I must apologize for my initial uncertainty. It is difficult, I believe, for a man to determine when his life truly commences. Few men tell a tale that begins at birth; most choose some definitive point in their later lives that demonstrates the essence of their character. For myself, I know not when that moment came, if indeed it has come at all yet in my brief lifetime.**_

_**In less than two months' time I will pass my eighteenth year, yet I do not know if I can consider myself a man. The qualifications for that privilege differ depending upon the judge of the qualifier. Were I to judge myself, I would find myself lacking in the bravery, strength, surety, and wisdom that characterize great men like my father and brother. I have won no contests of swordsmanship, taken no women to my bed, and counseled no great lords. I have made mistakes that will forever mar my spirit, and I have proven myself wanting as the son of the Steward of Gondor.**_

_**The first memory I have of my failure to meet the noble standards expected of me is of an incident that occurred in my twelfth year. At that time, I still harboured the belief that I might somehow earn my father's praise if I strove hard enough to improve myself. What a fool I was then, to believe that the Lord Denethor could ever come to be as proud of his second son as he was of his first. That day, I realized that despite my efforts, I could never measure up to Boromir in any way, for in my misguided naïveté I constantly brought only dishonor to the H**__**ù**__**rin name.**_

-+-+-+-+-+-

"He's afraid!" sneered the young noble. "He won't do it, Duilin!"

"You're right, Derufin—he won't. Because he's a coward." Duilin grinned cruelly, but Faramir just ignored him and kept his eyes fixed on his book. Derufin, the younger bully, swung up into the lower branches of the old, twisted oak and leered down at Faramir from above.

"So perished Arvedui Last-King," Faramir muttered, just loud enough for Duilin and Derufin to overhear, "and with him the _palantíri _were buried in the s—"

Duilin kicked Faramir's book out of his hand, and when Faramir stood up to get it, Duilin shoved him to the ground again. "Reading books, instead of fighting like a brave man!" Derufin laughed, then hissed, "Coward."

"The fact that I am not foolhardy enough to try to saddle a wild stallion does not make me a coward," said Faramir quietly, brushing dust off his new tunic as he stood. "Anyone possessing basic reason would agree with me on that point. Perhaps 'reason' is a foreign term to you, Duilin."

"You'd better watch your mouth!" snarled Duilin. "This time your hero brother isn't here to save you!"

Faramir raised an eyebrow but said nothing in reply. He did not need Boromir to protect him from the likes of Duilin and Derufin, two arrogant brats who bullied anyone smaller than themselves for mere sport. Besides, Faramir knew that Duilin would not dare to strike the son of the Steward. The boys' father, Lord Duinhir, would have beaten them both quite soundly had Duilin been so carelessly disrespectful as that. Even if Duilin had had no fear of a beating, he would not have risked jeopardizing his inheritance.

Duilin sauntered over to Faramir, an ugly sneer twisting his face into a cruel mask. Derufin continue to chuckle and guffaw from his position in the tree. Faramir stood expectantly, tense despite himself, watching Duilin with his eyes. All of a sudden, the other boy scrunched up his face and drew a fist back as if ready to strike. Faramir flinched and recoiled automatically, and the two brothers laughed.

"How very shaky for one with such _reason_," taunted Duilin. "Did you not know in your endless wisdom, Faramir, that I would not hit you?" Faramir was silent, watching. "What's wrong, Faramir? Don't you have something witty and clever to say?" Still, Faramir said nothing. "Answer me when I'm speaking to you!"

Faramir straightened his back, tightened his jaw, and leveled his glare straight into Duilin's eyes without saying a word.

"I said, _answer me_!" Duilin growled, pulling back his fist again. This time, Faramir did not flinch. Pain burst in his face as the punch connected solidly with his cheekbone and nose. Dizzy, Faramir dropped to his knees and put a hand to his nose, feeling the slick, sticky blood that was dripping from it. His eyes began to water, and all he could hear was Duilin and Derufin's jeering laughter.

"You…you _hit _me!" Faramir gasped, incredulous. "I'm _bleeding_!"

"So?" Duilin asked lazily, eliciting another snicker from Derufin.

"I-I'm going to tell—!"

"Going to tell who?" Duilin scoffed. "Running to your big brother again, little Farry? You know, one day he's going to get tired of having to save you all the time."

"I don't need him to save me!" Faramir retorted heatedly.

"Then who were you going to tell? Your father?"

Faramir's ears reddened under Duilin's haughty gaze. "Don't bring my father into this…"

"Why not? If you didn't mean your father, then who did you mean? But then, we all know you would never tell Denethor anything, don't we?" Duilin's intelligent, devious gaze pierced Faramir. "You know what he thinks of you. You're a _coward_."

"I am not a coward!"

"Coward! Coward!" echoed Derufin, cackling stupidly.

"Stop it!" snapped Faramir. "My father doesn't think I'm a coward!"

"Are you calling your father a liar, then?" Duilin asked with a grin. "Because everyone knows you're a coward."

"I am _not _a coward!"

"Then why don't you prove it for once, instead of hiding behind big, strong Boromir?"

"Very well! I accept your challenge!" cried Faramir, leaping to his feet. "In the name of my honor and that of my father, I will saddle the stallion!" A look of quiet triumph passed behind Duilin's eyes, and for a moment Faramir paused. Perhaps he had made a mistake…

"_Damnit, boy, won't you ever learn to stand up for yourself—for me, your father?" _Denethor's voice rang in his head. _"When will you begin acting like the noble-born son you are?"_

No. He had not made a mistake.

"Bring me to him," Faramir added quietly.

Duilin and Derufin led Faramir down to the lower levels of Minas Tirith, to the fenced-in paddock behind the stables where the wild stallion was being kept. Duilin made repeated shushing gestures as they slinked past the handlers who were sharing a pint of beer in the stables.

"There he is," whispered Duilin, pointing. "The unbreakable stallion of the Rohirrim…"

The smoky-grey horse was tied securely to a post in the middle of the paddock. He bucked and whinnied violently, yanking at the rope that held him fast, but the bonds did not give way. Faramir heard the anger behind the horse's grunts—anger towards his captors, who had taken him from his home on the great plains of the Westfold of Rohan.

Faramir closed his eyes, inhaled deeply to calm his racing heart, and climbed over the paddock fence.

The stallion's eyes grew wide, and he screamed and kicked and thrashed feverishly. Faramir clucked his tongue softly.

"_Silly horse,_" Faramir teased in Sindarin. "_Why do you shy away from me so? Do you not know, silly horse, that I am here to show you the kindness of my heart? You have had no Master as of yet, but by my father's honor, I shall master you._"

Hooves flew in Faramir's direction as he drew near, and he shrank back in fear. He heard the two boys behind him snort derisively. His hesitation lasted for a moment longer before he released his dread and replaced it with the firm conviction of his ability to tame the wild creature before him. He had no choice. He had to prove, once and for all, that he was not a coward and a dishonor to the name of Hùrin.

"_By my father's honor, I shall master you,_" he repeated, more gently. A smile fluttered across his lips, and he began to sing softly to the creature that flailed in his presence.

"Silver flow the streams from Celos to Erui

In the green fields of Lebennin!

Tall grows the grass there. In the wind from the Sea

The white lilies sway,

And the golden bells are shaken of mallos and alfirin

In the green fields of Lebennin,

In the wind from the Sea!"

The creature was visibly calmed by the sweet melody of his voice, and when Faramir saw that his approach was working, he moved swiftly on to another song in his repertoire. The horse seemed to stop its crazed motions and almost listen, its head cocked to one side, its ears pointed and attentive. And while the stallion was thus occupied, Faramir reached gently for the rope that tied the horse to the post.

The knots came undone easily in his clever fingers, and Faramir slipped the rope slowly out of the iron ring that held it fast, singing all the while. He could hear Duilin and Derufin gasp in astonishment behind him and knew that he had saved his pride and that his father's, and that he need not go further. All logic and reason told him that he should retie the rope and take his leave of the stallion of the Rohirrim, but for the first time in his life, Faramir thrust aside all of his preconceived notions about right and wrong.

What would Denethor or Boromir do, if they were here?

Faramir knew the answer before he'd even finished asking the question of himself. If his father or brother were here, they would break the stallion and ride upon its back, so that there would never again be any question of the validity of their honor. If that was what they would do, then that was what Faramir would do.

Still singing, Faramir grabbed a saddle that lay nearby and slowly, gingerly, slid it up over the back of the proud horse and buckled it deftly. The horse stamped but made no move to stop him. He snapped other buckles and clips into place easily, and though the stallion whinnied once or twice in confusion or frustration, there was no violence.

Faramir steadied himself, swallowed, and stepped his foot into the stirrup. The majestic animal was still beneath him, and as Faramir's lilting voice drifted upward, he swung with fear in his heart up on top of the stallion.

The horse snorted in surprise to feel the extra weight on his back, and he released a braying sound of fear and anger that startled Faramir and caused him to lose his footing in the stirrups. The stallion's front hooves lifted from the ground and pawed the air, tossing Faramir from his back. Faramir landed hard on his side, and the impact left him panting in terror and pain. The horse bucked and ran for the fence of the paddock, the rope that had restrained him trailing behind like a runaway leash. With one great bound, the Rohirric stallion cleared the fence and galloped off down the cobblestoned street.

Duilin swore loudly and grabbed his brother by the arm. "Come on, let's get out of here!" he hissed, as the sound of footsteps and the handlers' angry voices drew nearer.

Faramir scrambled to his feet, clutching his side painfully and wheezing. "Wait…Wait for me!" He ran to the fence and reached over it, catching the sleeve of Derufin's tunic before the brothers could run. "Wait!"

"Get off me!" said Derufin, shoving Faramir to the ground. Laughing, Duilin and Derufin fled and were quickly hidden from view by the crowd of onlookers who'd come to see what the commotion was about.

Woozy from the pain in his side, Faramir staggered to his feet and tried to slip over the paddock fence, but a thick, meaty hand caught him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him back.

"You!" one of the handlers shouted into Faramir's face, his breath stinking with ale. "You untied the Rohan hos'!"

"I-I… No! I mean… It was an accident!" Faramir stammered, tears in his eyes.

"Aren't you Faramir, Lord Denethor's son?" asked the other handler, who seemed to be slightly more sober than his counterpart.

"Y-Yes," Faramir croaked out.

"Good," grunted the first handler. "Saves me a trip that woulda been spent goin' to tell Denethor that his hos' was stole."

"No, I-I wasn't _stealing _it!" Faramir tried to explain frantically. "It wasn't my fault!"

"Oh, yeah? Who's fault was it, then?"

"It was—" Faramir stopped himself in mid-sentence, realizing that if he told the handlers about Duilin and Derufin, he would be scorned as a coward _and _a tell-tale. Anyway, there was no point. No one would believe him. Faramir hung his head and stared at his feet in silence.

"Tha's what I thought."

"Let's bring him to Denethor."

_:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:_

"What in the name of the great Valar were you thinking?" bellowed Denethor, spittle flying from his lips in fury. "You could have been injured! You could have been killed! Worse, you could have injured the beast! That horse is a prided stallion of Rohan, purchased at great cost by Lord Duinhir! It was a gift, to _me_! You had no right to touch it!"

Faramir was outwardly calm despite the twinge of anguish that shuddered through his frame. "I have already apologized for my transgression," he said quietly. "What is it you want from me, Father?"

The Steward backhanded his younger son, hard. Faramir turned his head in pain and surprise at the sting, staggering sideways. His father hadn't struck him since he was a very young child—since before his mother died.

"Ask that not of me," Denethor replied, his voice shaking. He flung his arm in the direction of Lord Duinhir, who stood against the far wall, watching.

Faramir held his chin high, bowed to his father, and turned to face the disdainful stare of Lord Duinhir. Faramir's innards were clenched with nerves and remorse. He had done nothing except to stand up for himself, and yet he was being disciplined. Where had he gone wrong? How could he have disappointed his father _again_? Only by a tremendous effort was he able to ask evenly, "What is it you want from me, my Lord?"

Lord Duinhir's gaze was not a friendly or a sympathetic one. Rather, it was the cold, distant gaze of a man who was privileged and all too aware of having been insulted. His body had long ago been made thick and lazy by much good food and wine, and his heavy hands were laden with gold and silver rings that Faramir knew had probably left many a scar on the faces of the man's two sons as well as his many servants.

"You have disparaged my honor, young lord," Lord Duinhir began brusquely.

"I did what I did to defend _my_ honor," Faramir corrected austerely, his eyes flashing with sudden anger. Why did no one understand?

"Don't speak back with impudence," Denethor snapped.

"What do you mean?" Lord Duinhir asked, narrowing his eyes.

Faramir paused, but he could not lie to Lord Duinhir in response to a direct question. "Your sons, Duilin and Derufin, called me a coward, thus challenging my honor and that of my father, the Steward of Gondor." Faramir's eyes flickered surreptitiously towards Denethor. His father's face was inscrutable. "It was Duilin's idea that I try to saddle the horse. When I refused, he struck me and said that I—"

Suddenly, Lord Duinhir grabbed Faramir by the arm and turned him forcibly to face Denethor.

"Denethor, your son is lying." Duinhir's eyes bored deep into the Steward's. His grip on Faramir's arm was bruising. "My sons would never lay a hand on the Steward's issue, nor would they involve themselves in such a petty attempt at theft."

"It wasn't theft!" cried Faramir, his eyes now pleading with his father. "I would never steal anything belonging to you, sire, or to anyone in all Gondor!"

"Hold your tongue, boy," Denethor ordered coldly. "Of course, Lord Duinhir, my son will be punished for his crimes."

"And I shall be the one to punish him," Duinhir replied, shedding his ornate overcoat. He held out his hand to a servant who stood nearby. The servant offered up a slender, pliable rod, which Duinhir seized and flexed experimentally.

"The penalty for theft in this city is seven lashes." Denethor's voice was as chill as a wintry blade of steel. "So that is the penalty he shall be dealt."

Faramir saw the sharp flicker in his father's eyes and read it for what it was—hatred. Hatred of insubordination, hatred of disloyalty, and most of all hatred of weakness. And because Faramir embodied those three things at this moment, it was hatred of him, too. Faramir clenched his teeth to hold back a sob as fear and confusion engulfed him. Why did his father not understand? Did he not realize that everything Faramir had done today had been done for him?

Faramir pulled his tunic off over his head so that his bare back was exposed. Duinhir pushed him forward against a table so that the young man's palms dug into the wood and his back arched. Duinhir raised the rod and brought it down in a smarting blow against Faramir's flesh. The young lord flinched and closed his eyes. A shudder of pain passed through his frame, but he didn't allow himself to react. He had to prove to his father that he could be strong. He was _not_ a coward.

"One."

The second lash struck in the same place as the first, where the skin was already beginning to bruise. Faramir found his eyes tearing even though he strove against it. Denethor's head jerked slightly as though in an attempt to look away, but his eyes were caught by the pain on his younger son's face.

"Two."

With each successive smack of the rod, the pain grew. Faramir bit his lip against outcry as Duinhir slowly counted off each singular lash. Three... Tears trickled down Faramir's face, and his entire body shook. Four... His face was distorted with anguish, and he waited and waited for his father to say something, to stop it, but nothing happened.

"Five."

The next whack of the rod brought a large, red welt to the skin, and the cry that Faramir had withheld now exploded from his lips. His knees gave out beneath him, and he collapsed to the floor. Duinhir grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and shoved back up against the table.

"Six."

Faramir buried his face in his hands, writhing against the sting of the blows. Sweat trickled down the crevasses in his skin, and he had to force himself not to sob. As the last thwack of the cold, terrible rod resounded against his body, Duinhir snorted derisively and finally released him. Faramir fell and gasped for breath, his face red from the pain.

"Seven."

Duinhir slipped his overcoat back over his shoulders and returned the rod to the servant. With a quick bow to Denethor and nothing more, Duinhir turned and marched from the hall. Before he had exited through the great doors, Faramir heard the lord say to his attendant, "I would have expected better than lying and thievery from a child of Hùrin descent…"

Denethor stiffly watched Duinhir leave and then turned to his son. "Faramir." His voice was hardly louder than a whisper. Faramir squeezed his eyes tightly shut but did not answer. "Look at me when I speak to you, boy! Look at me!"

Faramir wiped sweat from his brow and lifted his head. "Yes, sire?" Faramir brought himself with difficulty to one knee in proper reverence and tried to keep as still as possible to keep from pulling at his sore and bruised back.

"Once again you have humiliated me with your…your…"

"My what?" Faramir dared to ask.

"YOUR CHILDISH INSOLENCE!" Denethor roared. The room fell deathly silent, and Faramir's eyes fell. "Your petty rebelliousness! Your constant defiance! Have you forgotten the oath you swore to me, now three years past? 'Fealty with love, valor with honor, oath-breaking with vengeance.'"

Breathing hard, Denethor stared at his young son for several minutes as he calmed himself. Faramir did not dare raise his eyes again, lest Denethor see the tears of pain and sorrow that had gathered there.

"This was your vengeance, Faramir. For your sake, I would not forget it. I will not tolerate such waywardness in a son of mine. This is the last time you will disobey me, or you shall disgrace my name no longer."

Every fiber of Faramir's body was screaming for him to explain himself, to make it clear to his father that Duilin and Derufin had been responsible for the challenge, and that Faramir had thought to be brave by not running away or calling on Boromir to help him! _Why, Father, _Faramir longed to ask, _why do you not understand_? Finally, at a loss for the necessary words, Faramir swayed and leaned against the table for support, his thin frame throbbing with pain.

"Come," said Denethor sharply. "You look a shameful mess. Get you gone to the healers, boy." When Faramir didn't move, Denethor stepped forward to help him to his feet. Faramir looked up at his father with searching eyes. There wasn't even the slightest glimpse of fondness behind the stone wall that was Denethor's gaze. If anything, the emotion that Faramir saw there now was disdain.

"I-I was telling the truth, Father," he blurted out suddenly. "Duilin and Derufin _were _there, and we _weren't _trying to—"

"Silence," Denethor ordered, his voice low and dark. "To the healers, I say. I will expect you back in time for supper, so hie you thither."

Stunned, Faramir stared at his father for another minute, yearning to discover what action on his part would have pleased Denethor. Perhaps, he thought forlornly, nothing he could have done would have changed anything.

"Yes, Father."

-+-+-+-+-+-

_**After that day, I knew that my father would never look at me the way he looks at Boromir, with pride and affection. I was to be judged on an entirely different level, so that even if Boromir and I were to behave exactly alike, I still would be the lesser son. I do not blame Boromir for this; it is not his fault, after all, that I was not born a warrior like him and my father. I know that I will never equal Boromir in his military prowess or in his rapport with the men. I only hope that one day I may hold my father's respect, even if only for a fleeting moment in time.**_

_**As I reflect upon it now, I realize that I needed that beating at the hands of Lord Duinhir. It gave me the drive to defend myself when I couldn't rely on anyone else, not even family, to stand up for me—when my father did not wish to and my brother was not there. I learned to protect myself as a man ought. It is a lesson that has sustained me on more than one occasion in the five years since I learned it.**_

_**Yet though my determination was strengthened by this lesson taught me in my twelfth year, my poor judgment has remained a constant reminder of my failings as the son of a great lord. Perhaps it is not that I am incapable of meeting my father's noble standards, but rather that I in my recklessness consistently take the wrong course of action. Such impaired judgment is a worse fault than any physical impediment; for though weakness of the body may harm only oneself, weakness of the mind often harms the innocent passerby, as well…**_

* * *

Note: The song Faramir sang to the horse was taken from _The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King_ (Chapter 9 – The Last Debate).

_Girithron_

(December)


	5. Failings

Chapter V - Failings

"My Lord Elboron?"

I jerk my head up as the door to my study opens, blinking in the bright glare of the torch-lit hallway after hours of dim candlelight. A guard with sleepiness in his eyes stands in the doorway.

"What time of the night is it?" I ask him, suddenly realizing that I have no idea how long I have been reading.

"'Tis just before midnight, Prince," he answers cautiously, hesitantly. "Your lady wife worries for you and wishes you to come to bed. Will you not retire for the night? The healers fear you may overtax yourself…"

"The healers fret over nothing." I rub my aching brow and settle back down to my work. "I am a soldier, and I have spent more sleepless nights under the shroud of Mordor than I can recall. I will not be 'overtaxed' by reading late into the night." Chastised, the guard begins to withdraw, mumbling a sheepish apology, but I call him back.

"As for my lady, tell her that I am doing what I must. She will understand."

He leaves, and I am left alone with the crackling fireplace and the dripping candles again. My eyes linger on one line of the entry I have just finished reading: **_I cannot forgive my father for the coldness he showed me that day._**

Shame seems to crush me from all sides as I remember…remember it all. The huge fight, the anger, and the spiteful words. I shove the parchment away from me. Reading these words in his handwriting is unbearable. It was this event, this moment, this beating at the hands of Lord Duinhir that made him fight me the way he did.

My father, beaten! Can I even imagine such a thing? I came to blows with him often about his values, but there was never a question in my mind that he was a strong, noble man. Imagining him weak and defenseless—indeed, nearly pitiful!—is beyond the ability of my mind's eye. My father was sternly proud of his accomplishments, and there is not an instance I can remember when he did not stand up for what he believed in, whether I agreed or not! Yet now, in this passage, he earns my heart's sympathy!

Lord Damrod—the third son of the late Lord Duinhir—is one of Elessar's advisors. From what I can gather from records, Damrod inherited the lordship when both Duilin and Derufin were killed unexpectedly in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. It seems cruelly fitting to me that they were slain in the battle that my father survived, though he was at the brink of death at the time.

How can I ever look Damrod straight in the face again, knowing what his father did to mine?

How can I ever look my son straight in the face again, knowing what I have done to him?

----------------

"Ada_, I do not want to!" Barahir cried, tears streaming down his face. Elboron slapped him sharply across the cheek and gave him a stern glare._

"_You will do it, whether you want to or not," Elboron told him fiercely. "You are not a tiny babe, Barahir. It is time you start taking on a few responsibilities. The Citadel Guard will teach you discipline."_

"_I don't want to! I don't want to fight!" Barahir nearly screamed at him, shaking his head. "I don't want to fight!"_

"_Do not talk back to your father! You will do your duty!" Elboron gave his son another smack to put him in his place, and Barahir sobbed._

"_Elboron!" Faramir's stony face was set with lines of anger. "Stay your hand! Why do you strike your son?"_

"_It is not your place, Father, to correct me," Elboron replied waspishly, turning to face Faramir. "My son's discipline is none of your concern. Why are you even here at this hour? Don't you have a meeting to attend with King Elessar concerning the appointment of a captain to the forces in Nurn?" The chill in Elboron's voice was as cold as ice._

"_It is my job to know when I have a meeting, not yours. However, it is my place to correct you when I find you doing this to your son. Again I ask you: Why?"_

_Elboron could see that his father was only barely keeping his anger in check, and that infuriated Elboron more than anything else. "Keep to your politics for once and leave discipline to someone with more experience."_

_A flash of anger crossed behind Faramir's eyes. "I have more experience than you know. There is a difference between discipline and cruelty—a difference that you would do well to learn." Before Elboron could retort, Faramir turned to the small boy stifling his sobs behind his father. "Barahir," said Faramir gently. "Come here." Barahir glanced up at Elboron nervously and then tiptoed over to his grandfather._

_Elboron watched stiffly as Faramir scooped Barahir up in his arms. Faramir made a funny face when he realized how heavy the child was, and Barahir laughed as he was placed gently back down to the floor. Elboron fumed silently. Faramir was destroying all of the careful, regimented order that Elboron had been working for so long to perfect in his son!_

"_Tell your grandpapa what's the matter," Faramir whispered to Barahir, still smiling. "What is it that your papa wants so badly from you?" Faramir glanced up at Elboron, and Elboron made sure that Faramir saw how furious he was._

"_Papa wants me to fight," Barahir answered, biting his lip nervously. Faramir frowned. "He says that I need to join the Citadel Guard to fight, but I don't wanna fight."_

"_Ridiculous," Faramir snorted, turning his frown on Elboron. "Elboron, your son is only nine years old! He is far too young to be made to endure such harsh 'discipline', as you call it. Absolutely not. I won't allow it."_

"_It is not a matter of you allowing it," Elboron shot back, beginning to raise his voice. "As his father, I will decide what is best for him, and that is final."_

_"As the Steward of Gondor, I swear to you that I will not allow it," Faramir said. "If I must, I will draft a law prohibiting any child under the age of twelve to enter military service. Must I do that, Elboron? Must you be so difficult? Or can you listen to me as a father for once instead of as a lord?"_

"_I will not listen to you as a father!" Elboron snapped. "You are wrong!"_

"_No, Elboron." Faramir's voice was now steely and cold. "_You_ are wrong. You are wrong for forcing this upon your son, and you are doubly wrong for ever laying a hand on him. No man who strikes his own child or allows harm to come that child deserves to be called a father."_

"_You raised me with that distorted philosophy, and I had to learn discipline on my own!" Elboron shouted. "There is nothing wrong with knowing one's place and obeying higher command!"_

"_Yes, but there is a lot wrong with being forced into a life that one will always despise!"_

"_And what exactly is that supposed to mean? My son will be a soldier like me—his father—and yes, even like yourself! Do you mean to tell me that you did _not_ serve in Gondor's army as a supposed loyal soldier as you have told?"_

"_The boy is born to be a scholar!" Faramir cried. "You see nothing of the talent he has, because you do not wish to see it! The life of a soldier is not the only path that should be offered to a young child! Just because that is the path you have chosen does not mean you have the right to force that choice on your son! You have _no right_ to have such high expectations—expectations that he may _never_ be able to fulfill for you! If you do this to him now, you will break his spirit! He will live always trying to make others happy and never himself!"_

"_That is absurd," Elboron spat._

"_It is the truth, whether you want to face it or not!"_

"_No, I will not accept your twisted version of the truth!"_

"_I will not sit idle and watch this happen again, Elboron."_

"_Again?"_

"_If you refuse to back down, I _will _have that law passed. I hold the respect of many of the committee. You know that I can do it."_

_"Fine!" Elboron snarled. "Then I am leaving this damned city! If Elessar needs a captain in Mordor, then he shall have one! And the instant Barahir turns twelve, he will enter the Citadel Guard!" Elboron took his son by the hand and led him swiftly from the room without looking back._

----------------

When my son looked upon me, I always interpreted the look in his eye to be reverence. Could it be that it was truly fear? Could it be that he keeps a record of his own story, like my father did, and writes of how cruel and heartless I have been to him? Of the choices I never let him make? Of how much he thinks I hate him?

Could it be that my son will go soon to die in Nurn, never to live the dreams he should have lived?

I blow out every candle in the room and slip silently from the room. The guards outside jump to attention at my exit, asking what they can do for me, but I cannot reply. They ask if they should accompany me, and I grumble a soft, "No."

The balcony of the tallest tower in Imeryn is empty and cold. Even Eärendil's Star seems to gleam pale and wan tonight. From the tower, I can see the great peak of Mindolluin, and beneath it the peak of the White Tower of Ecthelion, pinnacle of Minas Tirith. I remember the day I left it, headed for Nurn, nearly six full years ago, carrying with me the authority of a captain and a bitter grudge against my father.

How could I have ever known that that was to be the last time I ever spoke to my father except for the final, fleeting moments before his death? I shiver and turn my eyes to the gardens far below in one of the courtyards—the gardens where I watched my father's breath languish and fade.

He said then that I had always been my mother's son—a fighter, first and last. Am I my mother's son, I wonder, or more truly Denethor's grandson? A shadow seems to follow me now, haunting my steps, ever since the funeral in Rath Dínen. I wonder if, by some device of magic or sorcery, my soul called out to its kindred spirit and summoned my long-dead grandfather from the grave to walk beside me in testament to our bondage.

I give my head a vigorous shake to dismiss the demons there and seat myself beneath the stone wall that surrounds the top tower. I breathe in—quickly at first, but then slower. In and out, in and out, in and out. The chill night freezes my throat with ice; this spring air is not yet warm.

Once again my eyes find Minas Tirith far away beyond the Anduin, and I count the days since I rode hither. Five days and five nights and one, it has been, since Eldarion gave me leave to depart the White City. How much longer can I wait, haunted thus by the stories and the memories and the dreams? How much longer can the King and the country wait without a Steward?

Do they look down on me? Do they perceive me as weak, overwhelmed by such a common occurrence as death? What must they think of my captaining? I can imagine their whispers, rumors that I swoon at each loss and that my constitution is lacking for one supposedly so heroic on the battlefield.

What of Laurelindë? What thinks she of me, her once valiant husband, now troubled so by ghosts of the past? How she and the other ladies must grumble in delicate, plaintive voices of my failings!

Yes, my failings. I have failed in all—as a husband and as a father, as a soldier and as a Steward. And moreover, I failed as a son. I am nothing, nothing, nothing but a shadow and an echo of my proud and vain grandfather who is such a villain in my father's life! For the first time, I can feel fear creeping into the bottom of my heart. Fear that everything I have built has been for naught, for vanity, for monstrosity, for anything but for truth. Fear that someday my end shall follow my grandfather's—in shame and complete disgrace.

* * *

_Ada_

(Father)


	6. Ghost Vows

Chapter VI – Ghost Vows

All in the room rise and turn towards the West in reverence. My hand flutters briefly to my heart, and I utter in soft intonations a quiet prayer to the Valar—a prayer for strength. Never have I been a particularly pious man, but it seems proper now to murmur such pleas while we observe the Standing Silence. I am in great need of the Valar's blessing now.

I sink heavily into my seat at the head table and nod ever so slightly to acknowledge the polite good-morrows of the various dignitaries. It isn't long before the servants are bustling in with flourishes and bows, setting piping hot loaves upon the table beside the sunniest butter and the freshest of the apples from the gardens and good cheese and clean white cakes, all spread over the table on platters of silver. With these stuffs come flagons and pewter goblets of ale and shallow dishes of cream for dipping bread. As delectable as it all looks, I have no appetite this morning.

"Good morn, my Lord," says Laurelindë, seating herself with elven grace in the seat beside me. "_You did not come to bed last night_," she whispers in Sindarin. "_Have you had no sleep_?"

"_I fell asleep for a brief time on top of the tower, but the cold woke me again_," I reply likewise in Elvish. "_I cannot sleep…_" Laurelindë's eyes search me concernedly, but I look away and am grateful when one of my officials approaches me from the other side.

"_Ernil_," he says, "The Guard has spotted a small company bearing Prince Eldarion's standard approaching Imeryn. He will reach the city in a short while. Will you go to meet him?"

"Is my son with him?" I ask automatically, before I realize that the official cannot possibly have the answer.

"I do not know, my Lord," he answers gently. "Shall I prepare the way for you to greet him at the gate, or would you have me say that you are not well enough to meet with him today?"

"No, no—I am well," I insist, rising from my seat in all eagerness. "I am quite well. I shall meet him at the gate immediately!" The official bows and rushes off, and though Laurelindë begins to stand, I tenderly nudge her back into her seat. "_Please_," I whisper in Elvish. "_Give me time alone with him._" She hesitates, caution flickering in her eyes, but gives in and nods. I kiss the top of her head and quite near sprint from the room to catch up to the official.

"Call up the heralds," he is instructing one of my guards. "Have them announce the Lord Elboron's passage to the city gates. Summon his professional handler, and order him to ready my Lord's finest steed—the white stallion perhaps? Well, whichever he sees fit, in any case. Also, tell Captain Eryndil of—"

"No, no, no," I cut him off firmly. "This is to be a private, personal meeting between myself, Prince Eldarion, and one or two of his entourage if I choose." A part of me prays that the entourage includes my son. "No heralds, no horse, and please don't bother Eryndil. He already has enough to fill his plate just keeping me protected, don't you think?" I manage a distracted smile for the official and the guard, then sweep past them quickly into the open courtyard. The courtiers who try to stop me to offer their greetings and well-wishes probably wonder at my rudeness as I ignore them and hurry straight past. I will ask their forgiveness at another time, when my heart isn't thumping wildly in my throat.

Outside the castle, Imeryn is bustling with morning life, the change of the guards, the airing of laundry, the baking of bread—common things that I can almost wish on a morning like this I had time to appreciate. Two of the guards standing at the castle gateway insist on accompanying me through the city, and I allow it although it is just another disruption to the purpose that drives me forward.

Trumpets outside the city herald Eldarion's arrival, and the gates have only just begun to open as my guards and I reach them. If the Valar are indeed willing to listen, now would be the opportune moment for them to grant my prayer for strength. There is no doubt in my mind that Eldarion's stop here is his last before he marches to war in Nurn, bringing my fifteen-year-old son Barahir with him. This is my very last chance to make peace with my son before he is thrust into the cruel, violent reality of battle.

My eyes seek Eldarion first, proud on his horse of silver-grey and bedecked in a regal costume well suited for the heir of the King. Behind him rides his banner, followed by a small group of soldiers selected to act as Eldarion's bodyguard within the city. The first is too old, the second bearded, the third scarred beneath his left eye, the fourth too tall, the fifth too ugly… As each soldier enters through the gates, I desperate search for the one bearing my resemblance—my first and only son.

"Elboron!" cried Eldarion happily, dismounting gracefully from his saddle and moving to embrace me warmly. My return embrace is half-hearted, and still I look over his shoulder for the only soldier who mattered to me. The eighth is too grey-faced, the ninth too arrogant… "The guards outside the gate told me that you wouldn't be coming…"

"Eldarion…" I begin weakly. "Where is my son?"

A very rare expression passes across Eldarion's face—guilt. "I'm sorry, Elboron. I knew you'd want to see him before we head for the battlefront, but…he refused to come with my bodyguard. I am sorry."

The blow dealt by Eldarion's words cuts deeper than any enemy blade has ever done. "He…refused," I repeat, stunned. Eldarion's hand falls on my shoulder, consolingly, but I pull away. "Very well, then," I reply, trying to mask my grief. "I hope then that you will give him my farewell."

Eldarion nods, then turns to look at his guards and mine and shoos them away with a flick of his fingers. They bow, recognizing a dismissal, and continue onward towards my castle to enjoy the comforts of the morning meal. "Come," he whispers, steering me through the crowd that has gathered to behold the Prince of Gondor. "Let us find a place where we can talk as we were wont of old." He guides me out of the city gate through which he just entered and begins to walk along the old, worn path that follows the western wall until it passes into the hills of Emyn Arnen. The children chase after us for a little while, but their parents quickly call them back to their duties. Finally we are left alone in the broad, sweeping expanse of green spring and fresh grass as far as we can see ahead, the great stone wall to our right.

A moist rain has made the air solemn and grey, leaving muddy puddles on our path that reflect the shadows of tall grasses, glistening with dew, that brush at our legs. My heart, too, seems to reflect the rain and the clouds. Barahir _refused_ to accompany Eldarion into the city. There can no longer be any doubt in my mind—my only son, my only child, loathes me with such passion that he could not even bear to see my face one final time before he rides to war. What have I done? I have destroyed his hopes, his dreams, maybe even his ability to love me. I have crippled our relationship irreparably. I have shattered any chance of earning my son's respect and loyalty. If ever I needed proof of my failure as a father, I need it no longer.

"Elboron." I turn my face to look at Eldarion, but my thoughts are still elsewhere. "Elboron, your eyes are glazed over. Pay attention." Hesitantly, I focus on him instead of my private contemplations. Eldarion pauses, then continues softly, "Do you love and trust me as a friend, Elboron?"

"Of course," I answer automatically. "There is no friend I love so much as you, Eldarion."

"And you trust me?"

"Yes, Eldarion, I trust you."

"Then listen carefully to me when I tell you this." His voice is grave and concerned, and suddenly I feel a jolt of alarm. Has something happened to Barahir that he would not tell me about in front of the crowds? "Your people worry for you. The guardsmen told me that you have taken to locking yourself up in your study and reading for long hours, often deep into the middle of the night. You scarcely eat as you should, and you dismiss your healers' concerns as inconsequential. What have you been doing, Elboron? Why do you look so thin and so haunted?"

I laugh, but it is a laugh of self-ridicule and not of mirth. "Haunted? Eldarion, ever have you read me too well. I am haunted, indeed. Yes, I am haunted…" A spatter of raindrops falls from the wall above onto my face, and I shiver. "Eldarion…do you remember the chest that I showed you? The one marked with my father's initial with nothing inside of it?"

"Yes. What of it?"

"I found them, Eldarion." A crooked smile makes its way across my lips. "I found the parchments that should have been in that chest. There were here, in Imeryn castle. I found them."

"That's wonderful!" exclaimed Eldarion, throwing his arm across my shoulders. "My father will want to know immediately!"

I shake my head wearily, and the smile falls away. "No."

Eldarion's surprise is obvious, and he carefully pulls his arm back away. Eyeing me suspiciously, he asks, "Why not? You said that you saw how hopeful he was that they would contain something of Faramir's past."

"He also told me when he gave me the chest that the protection of a man's past is the duty of his sons, and that I was not to reveal anything to anyone—not even to him—unless I deemed it to be the right thing to do."

"And do you not?"

"Eldarion…" I stop walking suddenly and lean on the wall with my back against it. "They…they are not what I expected. They are stories from his past, from his childhood. I cannot share them. Perhaps it is only selfish reason that makes me say this, but…it feels as if they were _written _for me. Everything makes so much _sense_ now, but I can't—" My frustration forces me to cut myself off before I begin to shout at Eldarion. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the damp stone. "My world is falling apart. Everything that I knew to be truth was a falsehood."

"How so?" asked Eldarion, but I do not answer. "Please, _mellon nin_. Tell me what haunts your mind. Have I changed so greatly that you cannot now speak to me of yourself? There was a time when we shared our deepest fears with one another. If you do indeed trust and love me, you will prove it. Speak to me!"

"Oh, Eldarion, you cannot know!" I begin to weep silently into my hands, covering my face. "I am too ashamed to speak to you of it! Would that you were less bold of a friend, that you would cease to chastise me so by your words and your looks!"

"Elboron, I do not chastise you!" says Eldarion angrily. "You speak of things I have not done! How could I chastise you when I do not know what you have done?"

"It is merely by your presence that you sear fire into my conscience!" I shout back. "Everything you say, every move you make, every glance of your eyes! They are your father's eyes, along with all their disapproval and disappointment! The hatred of my son, whom you have seen reject me! The sorrow of my father, who—!" More than anything, I abhor the tears that roll down my cheeks, marking me as a child whose fairytale dream was shattered by the brutal blow of reality upon the illusion.

"Elboron…" Eldarion once again places his comforting hands upon my shoulders, staring me straight in the eye. "Seek and ye shall find. Ask and ye shall receive. Did I not say that I am here for you, if you need anything? If you needed a friend so badly, why did you not seek and ask?"

"There is nothing you can do." Again, as before, I do not meet his eyes. "I must wrestle my own demons, as must we all."

"Then you would have no help from a willing friend?"

"You march to war, Eldarion. If I judge rightly, you ought not even to have stopped here on your long road. If you can work a miracle in a brief hour, aye, you may help me. Since I know that you cannot, please do not make promises that you cannot fulfill."

Eldarion is silent for a long time, and we stand like this—as two brothers at odds might—until he speaks again. "One thing I can do: I can order Barahir to meet with you before we leave. Perhaps if you need only a short while to clear your conscience and make your peace…"

"Nay, order him not," I reply sadly, almost wishing that I could agree with him and take the easy way out. "It must be by his own free will or not at all. Never again shall I force my son to do or be anything that he does not desire to do or be—with you as my witness, Eldarion."

He nods, slowly. He is unsure, I think, of what I truly mean by my statement. "As your witness before the Valar," he swears solemnly.

I pause, breathing raggedly, listening to the rapid sound of my own heartbeat. "Would you swear such a thing by my father's name, Eldarion?" I ask him softly. Though my words do not betray it, I am begging, and he sees it in my eyes.

"For what purpose?" he asks, clearly afraid of my intention. "Will you still not tell me what councils you have held with your conscience?"

"Eldarion, son of Elessar." With that formal address, I catch his attention. "Will you swear it by the name of my father, Faramir? Will you attest to this vow of mine before the memory of his spirit?" He falters, and my heart is wrenched in agony. "Eldarion…please…"

A glimmer of sadness and pity sparks and fades in Eldarion's eyes. "Yes, Elboron. Yes, I will swear." There is a slight pause, and then he begins, "I, Eldarion—son of Elessar the King—do swear on this day with purpose to attest to Lord Elboron's vow that he shall never again force Barahir his son to be or do that which he does not wish to be or do. This I witness by the name of Prince and Steward Faramir, and before the memory of his spirit do I swear." Eldarion hesitates again. "Is that it, Elboron? Is that what you wanted?"

I smile weakly, clap his shoulder in gratitude, and nod. "Yes, my friend. Thank you." We both turn back towards the gates of Imeryn and walk in silence back down the muddy pathway. If I have frightened Eldarion or made him nervous with my superstition, he does not show it. A true friend is he, Prince Eldarion. There are few others I know who would have contented my request so quickly and so well.

Would that ghosts could hear vows.

* * *

_mellon nin_

(my friend)


	7. ‘Elen sila lumenn’ omentielvo’

Chapter VII – 'Elen sila lumenn' omentielvo'

**_6 Narwain, 3001_**

**_Though my father was hesitant to allow it, Mithrandir taught me the Elvish language as soon as I was old enough to learn. It is a language both beautiful and sad, full of mischief and at the same time lamentation. To speak the tongue of the Elves is to have an insight into a world where mortal men are not allowed to trespass, a world that I will never have an understanding of._**

**_The mystery of the Elves fascinated me for years throughout my childhood, and the questions in my mind led me to create fantasies about the Elves that any lore-wise scholar would have been flabbergasted to hear. I invented that Elves were half the height of normal men, green-faced, and bedecked in strange costumes of bright blues and purples complete with festive, pointy-toed shoes. Elven characters sprung into my head, and I sent them on countless adventures that I acted out by myself on lonely summer days when the sun was warm and Boromir was nowhere to be found. They faced dragons, conquered sea serpents and balrogs and trolls of all levels of ugliness. It was not until I had my first encounter with Elves that these crude fantasies disappeared from my thoughts forever._**

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"Faramir, come away from the window and cease your daydreaming!"

The tutor's sharp, whining voice was enough to jolt Faramir back to his senses, and he turned to find that the breeze he had let in through the window had scattered the poor man's papers all across the floor.

"I am sorry, Master Gilion." Faramir bent over to help his tutor retrieve the sheets. "I was merely remembering that Mithrandir departed almost four months ago now, and he assured me that Elves would be visiting Minas Tirith very soon, come all the way from Lothlórien!"

Gilion frowned. "You oughtn't give heed to that old man, Faramir. You know what your father thinks of him."

"Aye," Faramir grumbled. "I do."

"You are nearly thirteen now, Faramir. You ought to begin separating yourself from childhood legends such as those of Mithrandir."

Faramir was shocked. "The Elves are not a legend, Master Gilion!"

"No, they are not, but they are beginning to fade from this world." Gilion looked over his enormous spectacles at his young pupil. "Their time in Middle-earth is nearly ended, and the Age of Man will begin very soon. Their significance in Gondor is all but obliterated by years of mistrust and little contact. The Elves of Lothlórien in particular are not to be glorified. Their sorceress queen has been known to capture the hearts and minds of men and hold them forevermore in her clutches beneath the golden leaves of her enchanted wood. I would not spread Mithrandir's rumors about their visit, if I were you, young lord."

Faramir hesitated, caught between believing Mithrandir and believing Gilion. The thought of an Elven sorceress queen was startling, although it was an interesting thought… Perhaps her subjects had all been entranced by some spell, and they were bound to wait upon her day and night for all the rest of eternity, ensnared by her boundless beauty!

"Faramir! I asked you to stop daydreaming!"

At that moment, one of Denethor's servants opened the door and bowed. "Pardon me, Master Gilion, but his Lordship wishes to enjoy his tea in the company of his two sons. I'm afraid I must steal Faramir away for the time being."

Gilion threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "Very well! If his Lordship commands it, then so shall it be! Go, Faramir, but return here the instant your father releases you!"

By the time he finished his sentence, Faramir was already out the door. He loved old Gilion dearly, but he was an awful teacher. One must make a topic interesting to expect thirteen-year-old boys to pay attention. His prompt arrival at tea evidently surprised Denethor, whose eyebrows raised coolly when he saw Faramir approach.

"On time today, are we?" he asked with a cynical smile. "Normally you are so enraptured in your studies that it seems the servants can hardly pull you away…"

Faramir shrugged uncomfortably, taking a seat across the table from his father.

"Answer me with a 'Yes, sir' or a 'No, sir' when I ask you a question, Faramir."

"Yes, sir, I am on time today," Faramir said respectfully. "Gilion hadn't given me an assignment yet, and I—"

"A simple yes or no will do." Denethor's sneer had vanished into a cold frown. "Sit up straight and don't slump your shoulders like that. You'd think that I raised you without any manners." He sniffed disdainfully and sipped silently at his tea, glaring at Faramir over the edge of the cup. Faramir straightened up, unable to meet his father's eyes.

Several minutes later, Boromir strode cheerily in. Full of confidence, his step was accented by a masculine swagger that seemed to complement his handsome, mature countenance. His smile seemed to be bright with a kind of self-assurance that Faramir envied, knowing that he could never master such poise. No one could ever have mistaken Boromir for anything but the son of the Steward of Gondor. Denethor smiled.

"Turfuin held us late to spar against the Rangers," Boromir explained, wiping sweat off his brow. As he passed Faramir's seat, he tousled his little brother's hair. Faramir smiled in the hope that Boromir would sit beside him, but instead Boromir took a seat at the end of the table so that he could put his feet up. "This particular troop only just returned from Ithilien, and Turfuin said it would be a good opportunity for us to spar with the best of the best." He paused for effect, then added with a grin, "He hinted that I might be added to the Ithilien Rangers very soon. Their captain seemed very impressed with my swordsmanship, and I told him that it comes from lots of practice with my little brother." Faramir flushed with modest pride.

"Congratulations, Boromir," said Denethor, delighted. "I knew that it would only be a matter of time. I wonder how long it has been since they have had an eighteen-year-old with the Rangers." He chuckled. "Probably not since I was so young."

"Were you with the Rangers at that age?" Boromir asked. Faramir peered down into his teacup. Military conversation bored him dreadfully.

"Of course," Denethor answered. "As was my father before me. It has always been a tradition that the sons of the Steward are the finest swordsmen in Gondor." His glance flickered to Faramir for the briefest of moments. "Although, if your brother continues to spend more time with his nose in a book instead of practicing with the blade, he may well be delayed several years from joining the Rangers." Faramir turned red again, this time because of shame.

"Nonsense," Boromir snorted. "Faramir may not be too well versed with a sword, but with a bow in his hand he can hit a target a hundred yards away, dead-center! You've yet to watch him at archery, Father."

"I would rather he master the sword before the bow. The sword is a much more traditional weapon for the sons of lords."

"Yet you must admit, archery requires a great deal more grace and dexterity, and if it is where his strength lies, then why not encourage it?"

Faramir said nothing as they bickered. He hated when they argued over him. He would rather that Boromir stay silent and leave it be instead of causing a row every time Denethor criticized him. After a quarter of an hour listening to them banter on and on, Faramir half-rose from his chair.

"Excuse me, Father—may I go?" he asked nervously. "Master Gilion asked me to return quickly…"

"You will sit obediently until _I_ dismiss you!" Denethor shouted. "I do not care one wit for what Gilion has to say about it!" Faramir sank timidly back into his seat, quiet after being so harshly chastised. Denethor looked back to Boromir, who was now as silent as Faramir. "Come, Boromir, I wish to show you a few relics from my time with the Rangers. You may wait for me outside." Boromir began to protest, but Denethor frowned and so he got up and left. Faramir fidgeted in his seat. Denethor stood.

"Stay here," he commanded sternly. "Do not move, do not speak, and do _not_ weep! You are thirteen years old, and it is high time you started acting it!" Faramir had made no sign that he was inclined to weep, but he knew that Denethor believed him to be weak, which was why he had warned him against weeping. "When I send someone for you, you may return to Gilion, unless it is late. If it is late, go immediately to bed. I expect to see you promptly for breakfast tomorrow morning."

Then he was gone. Faramir closed his eyes and sat patiently for what seemed like an eternity. The sky outside darkened slowly, first to a purplish-red, then to royal blue. Hours passed, and still Denethor had sent no one to relieve him. He let his breath hiss between his teeth. His tunic clung to him, damp with sweat in the hot evening. At long last, the doors at the end of the hall opened, and Faramir nearly cried out in relief. Young boys are not meant to sit for hours staring at the ceiling, counting the tiles in the floor, and tracing cracks in the wooden table with their eyes.

But the trio of figures who entered through the doors had not come to relieve Faramir from his silent punishment. They were tall and blonde, and their ears came to points at the tips. Their robes were long and made of a silken grey cloth, and soft riding boots adorned their feet. Their eyes were like pools of clear water, like dappled leaves in the spring, like the silver snow of the cold season.

It struck Faramir very suddenly: They were Elves.

They began to speak to one another in their native tongue, and Faramir struggled to pick out words among their long, quick, flowing sentences. Remembering Mithrandir's lessons, he managed to put together a hollow skeleton of their conversation.

"_Where is the_…?"

"_Could_…_have been so_…_leave us_…?"

"_Such a lord_…_Gondor_…_once was_."

"Look!" This was in Westron, and Faramir jumped in surprise. All three Elves were smiling now. "A child!" Two of the Elves were maidens, and their hair hung down in long braids. It was one of these who had spoken just then, and Faramir's eyes were fixed on her. He remembered what Gilion had told him about the sorceress queen of Lothlórien, but it seemed a ridiculous thought now. Could one so lovely and kind be a wicked sorceress?

"What is your name, child?" she asked. As she spoke, the other maiden stepped closer to Faramir, muttering something in Elvish. The last, a princely-looking Elf, looked on with an expression somewhat like amusement. Faramir was so busy staring at the three of them that he forgot to answer the Elf maiden's question. "Have you a name?" she repeated, laughing merrily.

Faramir opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again when he remembered his father's command not to speak. He nodded his head, yes, but it only seemed to confuse the maiden.

"Can you speak?" she asked him gently. Faramir nodded again fervently, dying inside with each moment that he could not open his mouth and speak to these three graceful people before him!

"Is this not the Steward's boy?" the princely Elf asked the second maiden. "He bears his father's semblance, as well as the mark of Gondor." He gestured elegantly towards Faramir's white tunic, which displayed a silver tree stamped upon it.

"Are you Denethor's son?" the first maiden asked, still smiling. Faramir nodded again, biting his lip to keep from speaking. "He must be the younger, Faramir. It is a pity that he is mute…" She put her hand sympathetically upon his cheek, and tears sprang to Faramir's eyes as he desperately shook his head again. Oh, he had promised his father that he would not weep, as well!

"What is it, child?" The second maiden knelt beside him and frowned, drawing her neat little eyebrows together in the center. "Where is your father?" After this, though, the three of them slipped back into Elvish, and so Faramir did not understand much as they continued speaking. Large, fat teardrops slipped down his cheeks, but the first maiden cooed and wiped them away as she whispered something sounding very like an Elvish lullaby in his ear.

"Faramir!" A fourth figure ran through the doors and stopped, gaping in awe at the trio of Elves who stood in a circle around Faramir. "Faramir, what…?"

"Excuse us, Lord Boromir," said the princely Elf, bowing at the waist to Boromir. "We were told that your father would attend us in his hall, but we found only young Faramir here."

"Yes, I know," said Boromir wearily. "We have been looking for him restlessly for a half of an hour! Faramir, why have you been sitting here all this time?"

Faramir shook his head through his tears, unable to stop crying.

"Is he not mute, Lord Boromir?" asked the first maiden.

"Mute?" Boromir blinked. "No, my Lady, he is not. Speak, Faramir! Speak!"

Finally, gasping, Faramir opened his mouth. "Father told me that I had to stay and sit and not speak or move or weep until he sent someone to find me, and I have been sitting here all this time waiting and not doing anything at all, only now I have gone and made a mess of everything by crying, but I could not help it because the Elves are so beautiful that I wept to stay silent when they spoke to me!"

The Elves smiled among themselves again. "A sweet boy," the first maiden said. "Yet I think it is past time for him to be in bed."

"No, it is not that, my Lady!" Faramir replied. He blushed when he realized that he had contradicted her. "I mean…I have already thirteen years. I do not need to be in bed already."

"Yes, but you are weary," she insisted.

"No, my Lady, not I."

She began to hum a lullaby to him, and the second maiden smiled and whispered in Elvish. Meanwhile, the princely Elf was speaking with Boromir, but Faramir found that the lullaby was making him very sleep, so he did not hear what the two of them said. By the time he woke, he was lying in his bed the next morning, and in his left hand was a string of gilded leaves surrounded by beads of gold and silver, each engraved with the same Elvish words: _Elen sila lumenn' omentielvo_.

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_**One thing I learned from my adventure is this: Never argue with an Elf, for you will never win. To this day I insist that I did not feel the least bit tired before she suggested that I was. The other moral I can gather from the experience is this: Though Men may be wise and shrewd, there are none wiser or shrewder than the Elves. Their eyes are unclouded by jealousy, fear, or greed, and so they can see both farther in distance and deeper into the heart than any human. It was a year or two before I realized that the Elves never believed that I was mute, except perhaps that I have no voice of my own.**_

_**I still own the bracelet of leaves that they left me. It is a womanly trinket, yet I keep it as a reminder of the day when I realized that there was nothing in the world I wanted to be but a scholar of Elvish lore. It reminds me that I am not only a soldier, just as I am not only a puppet commanded by my father's voice.**_

_**I forgot about the Elvish inscription on the leaves, until the day before last when I rediscovered the trinket hiding protected in my drawer. By now I can speak Elvish as fluently as can be expected of someone who has been speaking it for only five years, and I now know what the Elvish means: "A star shines on the hour of our meeting."**_

_**Indeed, my Lady, it did.**_

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_Narwain_

(January)


	8. Elvish Wisdom

Chapter VIII – Elvish Wisdom

"What a sweet scent blows off of the blooming flowers!" cries Laurelindë, sweeping her dark hair back with a light laugh. "Ah, how I love the spring! The birds sing and the grass grows long!" She reins her horse in to a halt beside a cluster of elderberry brambles and extends a slender, white hand to the songbirds nesting in the branches above. A sparrow hops gingerly to her finger and chirps in delight. Laurelindë casts her gaze towards me, her eyes sparkling. "Do you not love the season, Elboron?"

"It is beautiful," I agree, waiting patiently upon my own horse. We had already passed through the Elven city of Ithilduin, and it was only another hour's ride west from there to Eltarma, the Elven capital of Ithilien. There is no need to rush to journey. My meeting with Legolas Greenleaf has been postponed for long, but as I do not believe he has a desperate need for my counsel, I am not concerned.

Laurelindë flicks her finger towards the sky, and the sparrow takes flight, rising with ease above the treetops. "How I wish I could fly," she says to me with a smile. "It must be wonderful."

"I do not know," I say. Personally, my thoughts wander towards times when I have been hurled from stone battlements to fly through the air and come crashing down painfully among hard rocks. Flying, as I have known it, is not a pleasurable experience.

My wife seems to notice my distracted thoughts, for she gazes at me a moment longer and then kicks her horse into a brisk trot along the forest path. Quickly I turn my horse and hasten after her.

"Why is it that Elves are always so capricious?" I tease her. "They are said to be the wisest and shrewdest of all beings, and yet you, my wife, are ever whimsical as a dancing spring rain."

"Oh?" Laurelindë raises one eyebrow. "Who told you that we are the wisest and the shrewdest?"

"Everyone says so," I point out, though I am thinking intently of my father's entry. His eagerness in the presence of Elves is amusing to read. I cannot think of a time when the Elves were unknown to me. The Queen, of course, is the daughter of Elrond Peredhel, and the folk of Mirkwood have dwelt with Legolas Greenleaf in Ithilien since beyond the stretch of my memory. They have never fascinated me in the way that they fascinated my father, until now.

"Well, perhaps 'everyone' fails to realize that a sense of capriciousness lies at the very heart of wisdom," Laurelindë answers. "If you do not allow your mind the freedom to explore things that have not yet come to be, how will you be able to foresee the possibilities of the future? You are descended from Númenorean ancestors, are you not? Yours was a bloodline once knowledgeable in the wisdom I speak of. Has it been lost?"

Her sly smile is rather unsettling, if only because it forces me to question myself. It seems that I have assumed much concerning Elves. Their physical form may be likened to that of a human, but their minds are much more intricate and delicate than I realized. They do not think as mortal Men do, for their knowledge reaches back to times when Men were but infants in the world. Even Laurelindë, who is perhaps a little less than half Elvish, has the mark of the Elves within her.

"Not lost," I say, "but perhaps forgotten."

"It was not forgotten to Faramir." Her voice is low now, and her eyes soften as she looks upon me. I look away. "You are thinking of him, Elboron. I can see it in your eyes. His love of Elvish lore led him to live a life that, in many ways, reflected Elvish lifestyle. He was wiser than many old men of Gondor."

"I know. He held your people in such great esteem." I still cannot muster the courage to look at Laurelindë. "I cannot understand why his fascination was so great. What of the Elves held him enraptured so?"

"Our language, our song, and our love of all things beautiful in this world," Laurelindë whispers. "Faramir loved beautiful things because he saw so few. Gondor was in decline, and the Black Shadow was rising again in the East." Her voice grows solemn, and a slight frown tugs at her mouth. "I can imagine anyone would wish to think of happier things, of beautiful things, of Elves."

I have no way to answer her, because I know that she is right. I often forget that my father dwelt under the shadow of war for many years before the return of the King to Gondor. It is strange to think of a time when Elessar was not the King, yet that was the time my father lived. Few had hope for Gondor, and the Dark Lord grew ever stronger in the land of Mordor.

I have seen Mordor and the place where the Barad-dûr once stood. It is still a bleak and ashen place, but the dark threat that once abided within the realm has faded with time. The servants of Mordor were given the lands of Nurn as a peace offering at the end of the War of the Ring. Perhaps they would have stayed there in peace if their distant cousins, the Variags of Khand, did not wage war against our tentative allies, the Haradrim. Our intervention provoked the inhabitants of Nurn to war against us. Khand was taken many years ago. I myself was present at its capture. Nurn, however, remains the last battlefield to be won, fought against sparse bands of murderous, heathen tribesmen. That is where my son is fighting this very moment…

"Ah, Legolas!" cries Laurelindë. I turn to see the green-clad Elf striding swiftly along the path towards us. He smiles kindly and greets my wife in a rapid exchange of Sindarin that escapes me. Unlike Laurelindë, his hair is blonde, held back by a simple diadem of carven wood embedded with green jewels. Though his attire is simple, I try to imagine him dressed in the raiment of a prince or a king, high and majestic as an elf-lord of old. Such a sight would fit my father's description of the princely Elf from the Golden Wood.

"Prince Elboron," he says, bowing low to me. His eyes are sad and weary. "I can offer only my deepest sympathy for your loss. Faramir was a good man and a dear friend."

I nod stiffly. Why must everyone I see remind me of him, as if I do not already know that he is dead? Legolas takes the bridle of Laurelindë's horse and begins to lead her down the path towards Eltarma. I dismount myself so that I can walk beside Legolas and speak with him as we approach the city.

"I must apologize for the tardiness of my visit to you," I say quietly. "I have been much preoccupied of late by other matters. I never knew there was so much to be done when one's father passes away."

Legolas nods. "Of course. Do not feel as though you have kept me waiting. I understand the difficulty of your situation." I wish to tell him that he does not really understand, but such a comment would be appallingly rude. "I wish to introduce you to the council and reacquaint you with Eltarma. I know that it has been a very long time since you were last in Ithilien."

I grunted softly in acknowledgment. "The battles in Nurn have kept me away."

"Yes, I know. Faramir told me of your departure the day you left."

"Oh…did he?" I recall suddenly the healers telling me that my father had died of stress and anxiety, pining from the knowledge that I was so far from home, leading the combat in Nurn, and hating the thought of him every moment. "Did he often mention me, after I left?"

"There was never a time I saw him that he did not ask me if I had any word of you." Legolas pauses, then adds gently, "Faramir was never fond of war."

"I know." My heart aches; I realize now, too late, that Barahir is not fond of war, either, yet I forced him to march to Mordor with Eldarion. Despite the vow that Eldarion witnessed before he left, I have no doubt that my father's spirit frowns upon me. Have I ever done anything to earn his respect? Was there ever a time when I did not fight him just for the sake of rebelliousness? How like a child I was, even in my grown years!

"Elboron and I were just speaking of spring," says Laurelindë, "and how beautiful Ithilien looks beneath the damp new leaves."

"Yes. I would not leave Ithilien for any other land in the early spring, save perhaps Lothlórien," says Legolas contently. "It is like unto the Forest of my father, yet here the shadows are only shadows and not the hints of evil things half-hidden beneath the branches. Here one can almost smell the sea. Ah, the glorious sea!"

Laurelindë laughs. "Your obsession with the sea is insufferable, Legolas! Yet you will not sail?"

"Nay." Legolas sighs. "Not till my world here is come to an end, which I judge shall not be for many a long year yet."

"We still must find you a bride before you sail away forever!" Laurelindë teases him. I look away, occupying myself by stroking my horse's neck. They are having a moment together that I can never take part in, for it is only a longing of Elves to sail away beyond the Sundering Seas and unto the Undying Lands where they shall last eternal upon the glistening shores.

"Nay!" cries Legolas. "I would rather sail than become a bondsman to a lover! At least to sail would mean to be free! Ah, me! It seems not a terrible fate!"

My face grows pale, and I remember my father's final words. _"'And that isn't a terrible fate,' he would tell me… 'That isn't a terrible fate…'"_

"It is not a terrible fate to you, perhaps, but to those you leave behind it is a nightmare." I did not intend to speak, but the words flew from my lips before I could stop them. Legolas and Laurelindë fall into silence, and I close my eyes. "I am sorry."

Legolas puts a hand on my shoulder. "Elboron—"

"I know, I speak of things I do not understand." I pull away and swing up onto my horse. "I am sorry that I do not have the wisdom of the Elves, but I am not an Elf and I am not my father. I am not wise or shrewd or scholarly. I have no love of lore or music or Elves. Beautiful things do not hold me in fascination, and I have no care for spring other than for its warmth after winter. Faramir is dead. I know you are expecting me to take his place and live up to his legacy, but I cannot. I am sorry."

"Elboron, you know that is not what I meant." Legolas reaches towards me imploringly, but I shake my head and spur my horse into a canter along the track. I have no memory of the path to Eltarma, but I will lose myself in the woods before lingering with my wife and the Elvenprince while their knowing gazes pierce my mind.

I hear the sound of racing hooves on the path behind me, and Legolas charges past me on Laurelindë's horse. The mare gives a loud whinny as he steers his horse directly in front of my path, forcing me to stop. My horse stamps impatiently, chomping on the bit.

"Legolas, move aside." I am not in the mood for games, and Legolas is only making me more angry with his tricks and Elvish nonsense. "I have no desire to prance beneath the forest sunlight! If you have business with me in Eltarma, then take me there! No more of this playing!"

"Ever have you had a short temper, child." Legolas' voice was stern, but his eyes were soft. "Calm yourself. I would have words with you here. It is not business, but you must hear me out."

My horse snorts, tossing his black mane. "Must I? I am so tired of hearing my father praised while I am merely his successor, a half-step lower than him, empty of the nobility and wisdom that he possessed! Why must I be constantly compared with him, measured up to his great worth, reminded of my failings? When will I be my own man instead of his son and heir?"

"You _are_ your own man, Elboron," says Legolas. "That is what I am trying to tell you! No one is comparing you to Faramir! No one expects you to govern your office in the exact manner Faramir did! If anyone is doing to measuring here, it is you and none other. The only one who reminds you of your failings is yourself. Faramir was a great leader and beloved by all of Gondor, but you are not Faramir! You are Elboron, and it is time that you begin to see that no one is trying to tell you otherwise." Legolas grabs the reins and turns his horse back down the path where Laurelindë is waiting. I am left alone on the trail towards Eltarma.

Legolas is right. Haunted by the shadow of regret, I can find no outlet for my guilt except to compare myself to my father in every way, evaluating my flaws, mocking my weaknesses. How can I sit upon the King's council as the successor of my father's legacy when I cannot bear to form a legacy of my own?

Blast Elves and their wisdom! Why must they always know the truth? Why must they always be right? They showed Faramir in his youth that he was like a puppet commanded by his father's voice. Am I any different, or has Legolas just shown me that I am merely a puppet commanded by the guilt of my father's memory? I have finally found an enemy that I cannot defeat, and this time it is within myself. I have become my own worst enemy.

My father was right: Though Men may be wise and shrewd, there are none wiser or shrewder than the Elves.


	9. Henneth Annûn

Chapter IX – Henneth Annûn

**_15 Narwain, T.A. 3001_**

_**My father used to tell me that if there was one thing he hoped I'd learn from him, it was that a man can't back down from his fears, or someone else will end up getting hurt. When I was five, I didn't understand, because whenever I was afraid of something I was the only one who got punished for it. My mother used to tell me that the hardest thing for a man to live with is knowing that he failed to do what he knows is right. At the time I believed that she only meant that I shouldn't steal sweets from the kitchens, or I'd get a good, solid smack later from my father.**_

_**Now I understand. What she said was meant to go side-by-side with my father's warning: If a man fails to fight and do the right thing at the right time, someone else will get hurt and the man will be haunted by his conscience forever. I can't remember if I gave my parents' adage much heed when I was a child, but maybe if I had things would be different now…**_

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"Lord Faramir, is this your first time with the Ithilien Rangers, too?" The other young man looked admiringly at Faramir, as if having something in common with him would be a blessing. He looked a little older than Faramir, but even then not by much. Faramir thought that the Rangers must be shorthanded if they were suddenly taking on so many younger faces. Quick to please the nervous young man, Faramir smiled and lied easily.

"Yes, it is," said Faramir, shining the length of his blade with a clean rag. The truth was that Faramir had come with the Rangers dozens of times since his seventeenth birthday. He had pushed himself and worked twice as hard as most boys so that he could prove his worth to his father, and moment he'd turned seventeen he was asked to join by the Rangers' captain. But a tiny lie to make the newest Ranger more at ease could hardly be considered treacherous. Besides, nothing ever really happened on these excursions, anyway. They patrolled the borders, hunted some squirrels, bathed in a few streams, and then headed home with hardly a scratch. If there were any enemies in Ithilien, they were apparently sparse enough not to get caught by a company of Rangers.

The young man practically beamed with pleasure. "My name is Aerandir, my Lord. You're even the same age as I am," he said in a confidential tone. "Well, almost. Your birthday is in a week, is it not?"

"Yes. I'll be passing my eighteenth year," said Faramir.

"We'll match in age then." Aerandir smiled. "For a time, at least. My birthday is in four months."

Faramir returned the grin. "It is nice to see another Ranger my age," he admitted. "You must be an excellent swordsman."

"Oh, no." Aerandir scratched his neck shyly. "My grandfather was a renowned archer in the service, and he insisted that I learn to use the bow before the blade. Honestly, m'Lord, I only know the very basics of sword work. Captain Seregorn accepted me because of my archery skill."

"Me, too," said Faramir. "My father wanted me to excel in the sword, but I don't have the brute strength for it. Boromir is more the type of soldier to…" He trailed off when he saw that Aerandir had his head down and was almost blushing. "What is it?"

Aerandir shrugged uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, my Lord. It is only strange to…well…"

"To what?"

"To speak with the Steward Denethor's son, my Lord." Now Aerandir was really blushing.

"Oh, that." Faramir sighed. "Please, Aerandir, don't think on it. I am as human as you are and quite as flawed. I wish you to treat me no different."

"I do try, my Lord, but I am unaccustomed to finding myself among such distinguished companions…"

Faramir laughed. "I am not _distinguished_, Aerandir, and I do not like to be treated so. If Boromir were here, you might have reason to be embarrassed. He is a true soldier, experienced in the art of combat. If anyone in Minas Tirith should receive the title of 'distinguished' it should be he, not I."

"Very well, my Lord…I will try."

"Good." Faramir finished cleaning his sword and paused. "Here, let me show you how to polish your sword so it shines like Minas Ithil in the light." Aerandir handed the sword to Faramir, who took it carefully. His attention was caught by some of the detailing on the hilt; twin horse heads were engraved just at the base of the pommel. The shape and craft of the blade was broader and thicker, too, than what Faramir was used to seeing. The pommel was large, shaped like a half-sun.

"This is of Rohirric make, isn't it?" he asked, surprised.

Aerandir nodded eagerly. "Yes, Lord Faramir. I was born in Rohan, though my parents are both Gondorian. We lived there for a long while, my Lord, before we returned to Gondor. My father was even in their army! This sword used to be his, when he was a soldier."

Faramir smiled. "Good. Then I definitely must show you how to take proper care of it. Here—watch me." He took the rag between his first two fingers and his thumb and ran it through the fuller along the entire length of the blade. "Taking good care of your sword is very important to a soldier," Faramir instructed him knowingly. "If you allow it to get wet, it will start to rust, and rust is one of the sword's worst enemies. Even if you manage to clean it off, it can still eat into the blade. Blood, too." He saw Aerandir flinch. "But you won't have to worry about that. I've heard that the patrols never run into orcs in Ithilien." Aerandir was visibly relieved.

"So when you're cleaning the sword, be sure to clean off any little black spots," Faramir continued. "It's corrosion, and it'll patch your sword with these little grey spots everywhere. Also, once you're in battle the blade can get chipped, and such. See—" Faramir pointed to a spot on the edge of the blade. "It already has a little notch in the metal here. They're easy to fix with a whetstone, but every time you do that, you wear your sword a little thinner. Now, see how I'm careful at the edge?" said Faramir, demonstrating for the boy. "You don't want to press the rag too hard at the edge, or you might accidentally cut yourself. I've done that before." Faramir handed the sword and the rag back to Aerandir. "Here, you try now."

"How do you know so much?" Aerandir muttered, beginning to polish the blade carefully.

Faramir sighed and gave the boy a wry smile. "Boromir taught me all about being a soldier and how to hunt and how to care for a sword. He says he's taught me everything he knows, but…" Faramir laughed, shaking his head. "…I doubt it." He paused as a pair of Rangers hurried past, headed for Captain Seregorn's quarters. Something was about, though he wasn't sure what.

"It's all very…well…_creepy_ here," said Aerandir. "The waterfall keeps me awake all night, and it seems like there's always a hard rock under my head and a stalactite dripping water onto my face."

Faramir smiled again. "You'll get used to it." He looked around at the small, damp chamber towards the fireplace at the opposite end where a handful of Rangers were gathered eating their supper quietly. "Strangely, I find Henneth Annûn to be a cozy little place, full of quiet and peace and warm firelight. The wolves howl you to sleep every night, and the birds wake you every morning. The great silver moon is reflected so beautifully in the Forbidden Pool…like a great orb revolving in the sky…" He realized suddenly that he was rambling and laughed. "Forgive me, but it seems to me almost poetic, like something out of a fairytale."

Just then, the two Rangers returned led by Captain Seregorn, who looked tense and agitated. "Mablung," he said, turning to one of the young men sitting by the fire. "Get together some of your scouts and archers. Meet me outside the waterfall." He swept out without another word, the two Rangers right behind him. Mablung's eyes found Faramir from across the room.

"Faramir, take your friend and get him a bow," said Mablung swiftly. "Something is amiss at the falls! Hurry!"

Aerandir looked confused as Faramir stood and pulled him to his feet. "My Lord, what—"

"No time! Hurry now!" Faramir seized Aerandir by the arm and raced with him towards the armory. "Don't ask questions, just take orders and be silent!" Faramir grabbed his own bow and strung it hastily before slinging a quiver of arrows across his back. He looked Aerandir up and down, judged his approximate height, and selected a longbow of the appropriate length. When both of them were equipped, Faramir pulled his hood over his head and indicated that Aerandir should do the same.

They found Mablung waiting for them outside the waterfall with four other archers. Faramir could hear Aerandir's quick breath. His own heart was pounding in his ears. He had never seen Captain Seregorn so stern and worried before. To say that something was amiss did not describe the look of fear in Mablung's eyes.

Before long, the Captain joined them. It must be snowing; his hood and cloak were coated with a fine layer of snow. He and Mablung exchanged anxious whispers, and then Mablung swept through the door that led to the top of the waterfall. The Captain stayed behind and turned to the band of archers assembled there.

"A small company of orcs is gathered below us by the shore of the Forbidden Pool," Captain Seregorn murmured. Several of the archers cursed under their breath. Faramir clenched his fist tighter around his bow. "Our scouts have given no word of orcs, and there have been none in these parts of Ithilien for long ages. It is unnatural, and I do not understand it…"

He shook his head. "They are many, but we have the advantage of surprise. They have not yet realized that these caves house a hidden refuge. We must slay them before they do, or Henneth Annûn shall be overrun. Come with me, and stay close to the ridge. Do not let the orcs see you. They bring archers of their own." Captain Seregorn met the eyes of each man before leading them out after Mablung.

Faramir could feel his hands shaking and fought to steady them. He would be a poor shot if his hands shook, and he could not afford to miss. Aerandir stood beside him, equally shaken by the thought of battle, and they gave each other a brief glance that said, 'Be brave.' At a signal from Captain Seregorn, Faramir pulled an arrow from his quiver and notched it. Below he could hear the sounds of the orc rabble, but he was pinned to close to the wall to see them over the ledge.

"The Master said not to come this far South," snarled one orc angrily. "Glutazh has led us astray!"

"He is right!" joined another. "It is too open in this country! You can never know when you are being watched!"

The Captain raised his hand, and the Rangers took their positions closer to the ledge. Faramir could see the orcs now. Black and ugly, they swarmed like vermin beside the Pool, shoving and cursing each other violently. Most were armed with chipped, black blades, but a handful lingered behind with bows made of horn and sinew. Faramir knew to aim for the archers first.

Mablung drew back his bow, and Faramir quickly followed suit. Aerandir's bow was steady even though his breath was quick and heavy. Faramir took aim at the head of the nearest orc archer, and they all waited for the final signal from Captain Seregorn…

The Captain's hand slashed through the air, and half a dozen Ranger arrows whizzed through the air like lightning. Faramir shifted his bow at the last second, and though he hit his mark it was not dead-on. Instead of piercing the orc's head, the arrow struck its chest. Faramir swore to himself.

"Men!" shrieked the orc captain, the one called Glutazh. "Slay them! Kill them! Grab their skins!"

The throng of orcs rushed to the cliffs and began scaling them, swords at hand, but the Rangers picked them off one by one before they could reach the top. Faramir seized another arrow, notched it, and aimed for the last surviving orc archer, the one he had failed to kill, in one fluid motion. Before he could release the dart, a slimy orc hand grasped the top of the ledge where he stood. Faramir swung his bow down and killed the orc swiftly, and it fell back into the Forbidden Pool below. Another orc followed, and Faramir forgot about the orc archer in the frenzy to keep the mob off the ledge.

A shrill whistle flew through the air, and Faramir saw the orc arrow an instant before it struck Aerandir. Faramir's breath caught in his throat, and he watched Aerandir fall backwards onto the stone ledge. Faramir hurried to his side and saw the grisly black arrow that pierced Aerandir just below his left breast.

"Lord Faramir…" Aerandir choked out. His was pale with fear and pain. "I-I am sorry…"

Faramir shook his head vigorously. "No, Aerandir. Don't—"

"Faramir!" cried Mablung, calling him back to the battle. Faramir was loath to leave Aerandir's side, but he knew that he had no choice. He dragged Aerandir to a nook where he would not be harmed and hurried back to the ledge.

The massive tide was slowly being turned back, but only slowly. Faramir aimed straight at the orc archer's head, and this time his shot flew true. The orc collapsed limply to the ground, Faramir's arrow in its skull. Faramir sobbed.

It seemed as if the orcs would never stop coming. There were too many to stop with arrows, and a pair finally pulled themselves up onto the ledge. They were shot and killed, but three more immediately took their place. Captain Seregorn retreated inside the caves to summon reinforcements, and Mablung's fiery spirit kept the rest of them going until he returned with a company of swordsmen who would take up the defense. Mablung's archers fell back, and Faramir carried Aerandir with him.

"Here, let's have a look," said Mablung grimly as Faramir laid Aerandir beside the fireplace. Chairs and tables were cleared away to give them some room, and a small crowd of Rangers stood behind looking on anxiously. Sweat beaded on Aerandir's brow, and his face was sheer white. His leather armor was stained with red blood.

"If I remove the arrow, he'll bleed to death." Mablung's face was as hard as stone. "But there is no other choice. We can't leave it in him." Faramir nodded fearfully and helped Mablung roll Aerandir gently onto his side. The bloody arrowhead had stuck in the leather armor on his back, and Mablung removed the armor carefully.

"Hold him steady," Mablung warned. He gripped the arrow head and snapped it clean off, leaving only the shaft of the arrow to be removed. Aerandir cried out in agony, and Faramir closed his eyes. Mablung drew the arrow forth and threw it quickly to the side so that he could press both hands down hard over the open wound. Dark blood pooled around his hand, and Mablung called for cloths and for the fire to be heated as well as it could be.

Aerandir looked up at Faramir through cloudy eyes and gasped. "My Lord…I-I didn't mean t-to… I should have been…a better Ranger, like y-you…"

"No! Don't say such things!" said Faramir, tears welling in his eyes. "I am not a good Ranger, Aerandir! I am not!" He stroked Aerandir's cold brow with a shaking hand. "Don't speak. Close your eyes…" Aerandir obeyed him, and Faramir looked up at Mablung. The Ranger's face was full of sorrow and pain.

Captain Seregorn swept into the room, covered in black orc blood. "The boy," he said immediately, pushing through the crowd. "How is he?" Mablung did not even look up as he shook his head. Faramir choked on his tears.

"Can't you do something, Mablung?" he begged. "Anything? Please? This is all my fault! He can't die!"

"There's nothing I can do, Faramir," snapped Mablung. "Sometimes there is nothing to be done!"

"That's not true!" shouted Faramir. "You can help him! I know you can! You can help anyone—"

"Captain, please remove young Faramir," said Mablung tersely, his eyes still on Aerandir's stricken face. Captain Seregorn stepped forward and pulled Faramir back, bringing him back through the crowd. Faramir strained to look back at Aerandir's still body and his face, as white as death. The Captain was trying to say something kind to him, murmuring softly in his ear, but Faramir could not hear it.

Aerandir was dead.

* * *

_Narwain_

(January)


	10. ‘But you do blame yourself’

Chapter X – 'But you do blame yourself.'

"I won't do it! You can't make me! I won't be a Ranger anymore! I don't want to be a soldier!" Faramir shouted at Captain Seregorn. Tears were streaming down his face, and heavy sobs welled in his chest. "I won't!"

"That is a matter for you to take up with your father, Faramir," said the Captain sternly. He did not so much as look up at Faramir. "As of right now, you are a member of my company, and you will follow any command I give you."

"No I will not! I don't care what you say, and I don't care what my father says! I won't be a soldier! It's revolting! It's sickening! I won't do it!"

Captain Seregorn stood and pounded the desk with his fist. "Damnit, Faramir, I'm dealing with too many problems right now!" he yelled. "I don't need your insubordination! Get out of my office and return to your duty!"

Faramir leveled his chin, stared the Captain straight in the eyes, and said, "No."

The Captain grabbed the edge of his desk and tipped it over, dumping piles of paper onto the floor. Faramir could see the anger behind his eyes, and he shrank backwards a step.

"Do you think you're the only one grieving Aerandir's death?" the Captain demanded. "_I_ am the one who must return to Minas Tirith and tell his parents that their son is dead!" Grief echoed in his voice, and Faramir realized for the first time that the Captain's face was grey and lined with weariness and stress.

"I have never lost a man in all the years I have been Captain of the Rangers! Now I lose not even a man, but a boy! An eighteen-year-old boy! I have enough problems to cope with, Faramir! Are you going to be cooperative, or are you going to make me get angrier with you?"

Faramir paused, frightened by Captain Seregorn's outburst. He had never seen the Captain so furious before.

"I-I'll go, sir," mumbled Faramir, turning towards the door.

"Faramir."

Faramir hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. "Yes, sir?"

"It was not your fault. You know that, don't you?"

Aerandir's face floated back up in Faramir's memory, and he closed his eyes. He said nothing.

Captain Seregorn moved around his upturned desk to put his hand on Faramir's shoulder and draw him back into the room. "Here, have a seat," he offered gently. Faramir sat obediently in a chair against the wall. The Captain sat beside him.

"I know what happened out there on the ridge," the Captain murmured. "I saw the orc archer that you didn't kill with your first shot." Faramir bowed his head between his shoulders. "Faramir, listen to me. What would have happened if you had taken the time to kill that archer? The orcs would have overrun the ledge. They would have taken Henneth Annûn, and many of us would have been slain."

The Captain put his arm around Faramir's shoulder. "You had a choice to make, and you made the right one. You put the protection of Gondor before the safety of the Rangers. The choice cost Aerandir his life, but you could have saved the lives of many more."

"I-I told him that the Rangers never ran into orcs in Ithilien…" Faramir's voice was shaking. "I said…that there was no need to worry…" He choked on his tears. "Of all of us, why must it have been him? It isn't fair. It was my fault that orc survived! I should have been the one to be shot!"

"Never say that again, Faramir," said the Captain. "Rangers do not think that way. You were not killed. Aerandir was. You cannot change that now. You did your duty, and Aerandir did his. It is the promise of every Ranger to guard Gondor with his life. That is just what Aerandir did. He died with honor, Faramir."

"He should not have died at all." Faramir shuddered. "I can never forgive myself for what I have done…"

"Faramir, you must," said Captain Seregorn firmly. "You still have your duty to Gondor that you must fulfill."

"To the Void with duty!" cried Faramir. "I don't care! I vow that I will never kill any living creature ever again!"

"Please be reasonable. You are a valuable asset to the Rangers, Faramir. We cannot afford to lose you now, when we may have the most need of you! Your skill with a bow is astounding for a man of your age—!"

"It wasn't good enough to save Aerandir." Faramir closed his eyes again. "It doesn't matter anymore. If I was the best archer in all Gondor, I would give it up all the same. I…I _can't_, sir. I can't be your Ranger anymore. I am sorry…but I won't."

Captain Seregorn regarded him gravely for several moments, then sighed. "Very well, Faramir. If that is your decision, then so be it. Go, pack your things. Meet me outside when you are done. You will come with me to Minas Tirith with the boy's body."

Faramir rose and left the office quickly, his eyes cast upon the floor. He knew that he was doing the wrong thing. His father's wrath would be sure to remind him of that when they reached Minas Tirith. But somehow he realized that he didn't care. He didn't care that he was doing the wrong thing, and he didn't care that his father would probably skin him alive. He couldn't force himself to do this anymore.

He had never understood before what it truly meant to be a soldier. Boromir embodied the soldiers of song; he was bold, courageous, and completely fearless. He would march onto a battlefield bedecked in glittering armor with the glory of the Valar shining on his banner. When he stood in victory over his enemies, unscathed, a shaft of sunlight would light him up like a warrior of the ancient kingdom of Númenor. That was what Faramir always thought it meant to be a soldier.

Now he understood. There was no glory in this. There was no real victory. There was only blood and fear, pain and despair, loss and grief. It was hot and sweaty and exhausting, and no matter how many of your enemy lay slain, if you lost your best friend you did not feel as though you had won. Death conquered all, and a shadow descended upon the hearts of the soldiers, shrouding them in darkness.

It made Faramir want to vomit. To see life snatched away as easily as a leaf might be snatched away by an autumn breeze. To watched the light fade from the eyes of friends. To see them choking, gasping, dying. It was disgusting, and he would have no part in it anymore.

His few possessions lay in the corner of the large room where the Rangers slept. Aerandir's things lay beside his. Faramir bit back tears and set himself to the work of packing up first his things, then Aerandir's. Slowly, as if he was moving underwater, he sheathed the sword Aerandir's father had brought from Rohan. The scabbard was stained crimson, and Faramir shivered. He moved to place the sword with the bundle of Aerandir's possessions, then hesitated. He removed his own sword from his belt, putting it aside, and clipped Aerandir's in its place.

With a grunt, Faramir lifted his pack onto his back and lifted Aerandir's into his arms. He left the sleeping quarters and passed through the main room on his way to the main entrance of Henneth Annûn. He saw Mablung sitting, his back to Faramir, beside the fire. Faramir paused, knowing that he probably would not see Mablung for a very long time, if he ever saw him again. Faramir averted his eyes and continued on his way.

"You would have left without saying anything?"

Mablung's dry, quiet voice stopped Faramir in his tracks. He sighed and turned to see that Mablung had stood to face him.

"I hope you do not blame me for Aerandir's death, Faramir," said Mablung softly. "I know you are angry with me, but there was nothing I could do. He lost too much blood, and the arrow pierced his lung. By the time he got to me, he was already dying."

Faramir could not bear to meet Mablung's eyes. "I do not blame you," he whispered.

"But you do blame yourself."

Anger flashed through Faramir's eyes, and he wrenched his head up to glare at Mablung. "My guilt is my own. It is none of your affair."

"You are leaving us, then. I had guessed as much. The Captain should never have accepted you or Aerandir. This life is too grim and lonely for young men." Mablung shifted, and Faramir noticed that the Ranger bore a pack of his own. "The Captain has asked me and a few others to escort him as far as Osgiliath," he explained. "After that band of orcs, who knows what we might run into on the way."

"Indeed." Faramir turned and started out, but once again Mablung stopped him.

"That is Aerandir's sword, is it not?"

Faramir pulled his cloak tighter about him so that it covered the sword. "What if it is?"

"Nothing," said Mablung. He stepped closer to Faramir. "Many men are marked by their first battle. Hold it well within your heart, Faramir, but do not let it scar you. This will not be your last taste of warfare. The shadows grow ever darker in Gondor."

Pained, Faramir turned away. "If they do indeed grow darker, I shall have no part in them. I should have listened to my father. I am not fit to be a soldier. I should leave warfare to people like Boromir."

He and Mablung walked side by side out of Henneth Annûn, and they found Captain Seregorn and the others already waiting for them. Two of the men had ropes about their arms to pull a low wagon that carried a figure wrapped in linen sheets. Faramir looked away quickly and shivered again.

Captain Seregorn peered up at the sky, shading his eyes so he could look easier at the sun's position. "It is nearly midday now," he said. "If we make good time, we should be able to reach the Anduin by nightfall. We will follow the river north to the crossing at Osgiliath. I judge it will be safer the closer we are to the shore. These woods can no longer be trusted, it would seem."

Faramir walked beside the wagon that carried Aerandir's body, as if by his proximity he could comfort Aerandir's wandering spirit. The Rangers took turns pulling the wagon, and one walked behind to cover over the tracks they left in the snow. Even Captain Seregorn took the rope for a time, but Faramir was never asked to help. After two or three turns at pulling the wagon over the uneven ground, they all began to look weary. Faramir offered to take a turn pulling the wagon, but the Captain just shook his head.

They encountered nothing as they passed through the forest. No signs of orc camps, no fire pits, no footprints in the thin layer of snow, scarcely even a deer. Faramir was constantly trying to stay alert and watch for enemies waiting in an ambush, but his thoughts distracted him time and time again.

How would things have been different if Faramir had been shot instead of Aerandir? Gondor would mourn the loss of the Steward's younger son, undoubtedly, but there was always Boromir. Denethor had always praised Boromir. Boromir was strong, he said. Faramir was weak. He would be happy that he no longer had to deal with an incompetent son. He would probably say that it was Faramir's own fault that he had failed to defend himself adequately.

Faramir frowned. Boromir would miss him, he knew, but someday he would have duties and authority to keep him busy. He would move on, as would the rest of Middle-earth. The world would not cease spinning merely because a single Ranger had been shot and killed.

Aerandir would still be alive. He would go back to his parents healthy and happy. Faramir would be dead, but at least he would not be suffering under this burden of guilt. _He_ had missed his mark with the arrow, so _he_ should have been the one to die.

The world should work like that, he thought. Completely balanced, orderly, and fair. If one person made a mistake, that person should suffer the consequences. Innocent young men should be spared from the cold grip of death, and their families should be spared from the grief of losing their sons. Wars should not be fought, and peace should govern the world. Orcs should not exist, and elves should be more prevalent. Good should always triumph over evil.

Painfully, he reminded himself that the world did not work that way. It would never work that way.

It was long after dark by the time the small company reached the shores of the Anduin River. They made their camp on the shores and set up a watch system. Captain Seregorn was to take the first watch, but once again Faramir was not asked to do anything. Faramir did not want to challenge the Captain's decisions in front of the Rangers, so he waited until he thought most of the other had fallen asleep and then rose to join Captain Seregorn beside the fire.

"You should be asleep," said the Captain gruffly. He held a wide stick in his hands and was slowly whittling away at it with his knife, carving intricate designs into the wood. "We have a long ways to go yet."

"I know," said Faramir quietly. "I wished to speak with you, and in any case I cannot sleep. Not since the orcs…"

Captain Seregorn sighed. "Well, you'd best learn to sleep. I'm not slowing our pace because you can't sleep at night."

The irritation in the Captains tone surprised Faramir, and he paused.

"Well? Did you have something you want to tell me, or not?"

Faramir stared blankly into the fire. "Captain…I am as capable as any, yet today you seemed to ignore the fact that I am here. Why have you given me no share in the responsibilities of the company?"

"You are no longer a Ranger, Faramir," said the Captain flatly. "Thus, you are no longer a part of this company. You are a guest. I can no longer ask you to do things you do not wish to do. If you leave us, you leave us. There is no compromise in between."

Taken aback, Faramir looked up at the Captain in shock. The Ranger did not even falter for a moment at his whittling. Faramir excused himself and returned to his place. He curled himself tightly in his blankets to keep him from the deathly cold chill of the winter air. He watched his breath make clouds of fog in the air and thought about Captain Seregorn's words. What had made him so bitter? Now that he thought about it, none of the Rangers had spoken to him all day.

Faramir realized suddenly that from the moment he said that he refused to fight, he had lost the hard-earned respect of the Captain and his Rangers.

He shut his eyes and tried to sleep, but the sickening feeling of guilt kept him awake long into the dark, cold night.


	11. I Am Faramir

Chapter XI – I Am Faramir

"You did _what_?"

"I left the Rangers, Father." Faramir kept his voice steady, although his heart was pounding heavily. "I told Captain Seregorn that I could no longer be a part of his company."

Denethor's rage seemed to light his very eyes with fire. "How _dare_ you!" he roared. "Captain Seregorn accepted you out of kindness, despite your atrocious sword work, and this is how you repay him! Why must you always shame me with your pitiful excuses for getting out of any kind of hard work?"

Captain Seregorn was watching, his arms folded across his chest. Faramir glanced towards him hopefully. The Captain knew that Denethor had everything wrong, but he made no attempt to correct the Steward. Faramir was on his own now.

"Father, you told me that I was too weak for soldiering," said Faramir. "I-I know now that you were right. I am sorry, but I cannot be a soldier. I do not have the heart for it."

"You _will_ be a soldier, and you _will_ like it!" snarled Denethor. "I'll not have any son of mine be seen as a coward! If I must send you into enemy lands alone and unarmed to force you to fight, I shall!" He whirled away, storming towards his chair at the feet of the empty throne of the king. He sat down and stared haughtily at Faramir with the air of a mighty lord looking down upon the lowliest of his subjects. Faramir humbly lowered his gaze.

"You've killed a man, Faramir," said Denethor calmly. "The blame for his death lies with you and none other. You have shamed me beyond anything you have ever done. Your failure and ineptitude have resulted in a man's death. Had you done as I told you and trained more often instead of attending blindly to your studies, the boy would not be dead. You have disobeyed me for the final time, Faramir."

Faramir strained to hold tears back from his eyes. "Father, I—"

"Do not say that it was not your fault!" shouted Denethor. "You failed to fight adequately, and you failed to make the right decisions! Your errors in battle left a young boy dead! You let him die! You killed him!"

Faramir clenched his fists to keep them from shaking and struggled harder still not to cry. "I did not mean to—"

"No excuses!" Denethor bellowed. "No more excuses, Faramir! It is your fault! You killed him!"

"I—"

"Say it! Say that you killed him! Say that it was your fault!"

"I-I killed him." Tears spilled over and slipped down Faramir's face. "It is my fault. I killed him. I killed him…"

"Good," said Denethor coldly. "May the Valar take vengeance on you for your failings." He threw his hand in the direction of the door. "Get out. I do not wish to see you any longer. Await my judgment in the Tower, and do not come down until I summon you."

Faramir stumbled from the hall, and he did not see the look of pity that Captain Seregorn cast his way. He did not see anything until he reached his rooms in the Tower and threw himself onto his knees beside the bed. He had not prayed since his mother died, but now he found himself beseeching the Valar from the depths of his heart.

"Please, O great Valar, forgive me…" he mumbled, wiping away his tears as quickly as they came. "I killed him… It is my fault… It is my fault… Please, please forgive me… I will do anything…anything… Please…forgive me…"

"Faramir?"

Faramir did not answer. He felt Boromir kneel beside him and put his arm around his shoulders, but he could not stop silently begging for forgiveness.

"Faramir, whatever is the matter?" asked Boromir concernedly, trying in vain to comfort his little brother. "Please, tell me what is wrong."

"I killed him. I killed him. It is my fault." Faramir buried his head in his arms. "Father hates me. The Captain hates me. Mablung hates me. What have I done? Oh, Eru, what have I done…"

"What are you talking about?" asked Boromir. "Faramir, speak to me!"

"Aerandir is dead." Faramir's voice was hollow, completely empty of emotion. "Shot by an orc archer that I didn't kill. He's dead, and it's all my _fault_, Boromir."

"Orcs! In Ithilien?"

Faramir nodded and shuddered. "Outside Henneth Annûn…near the waterfall… We aimed for the archers first, but I didn't kill mine and it shot Aerandir. He's dead, Boromir. He's dead. I killed him. It is my fault…" He shook his head sharply. "I can't live with myself this way, Boromir. I won't be a soldier. I _won't_. He can't make me."

Boromir was shocked by Faramir's vehemence, and he could think of nothing to say. Instead, he tried to soothe his little brother as he cried. Faramir was comforted by his presence, but he knew that Boromir did not understand. Boromir could not understand. He was a soldier, and he loved it. Faramir was revolted by it.

"You should go," whispered Faramir. "Father will be wanting to see you…"

"Did he tell you so?"

"No, but he always wishes to see _you_." Faramir's voice echoed with the agony of his father's disdain for him.

Boromir stiffened. "I do not care what he wishes," he said angrily. "Has he done this to you, Faramir? Did he tell you that Aerandir's death is your fault?"

"It _is_ my fault," Faramir whispered, closing his eyes. "Whether he tells me so or not, it haunts my heart… I cannot escape it…"

Boromir stood. "I will speak with him. You should not be burdened by this guilt, Faramir. Warfare is unpredictable. Aerandir's death is not your fault, and he should not make you feel this way."

"Boromir, please," begged Faramir. "Leave it alone. I hate to see you argue with him."

"He needs to hear it," Boromir insisted, frowning. He left Faramir's room, slamming the door behind him in his anger.

Faramir flinched and pushed himself wearily to his feet. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at his feet. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't possibly be happening… His world seemed to be falling apart from the inside, crumbling around him. Everyone he trusted had turned away, and all of his carefully constructed confidence had been shattered with a single orc arrow.

He took Aerandir's sword from beneath his bed where he kept it and slid it slowly out of its sheath. The blade shimmered softly in the moonlight that shone through the window at the other end of his room, so beautiful and so deadly. He ran his fingers experimentally along the edge and pressed just hard enough to draw a few beads of scarlet blood from the end of his finger. It was still sharp enough for battle, sharp enough to pierce a man's flesh easily…

"I do hope you are not thinking of doing something foolish," said a gruff voice from the doorway. Faramir turned his head quickly to see the wizard Mithrandir standing with his staff in hand, gazing evenly at the blade in Faramir's hand. It was the first time Faramir had seen him in many years, and suddenly he wished that the wizard had returned at any other time than this.

"Taking one's own life is an act of cowardice frowned upon by the Valar, Faramir."

"I-I was not going to do anything," Faramir stammered, dropping the blade onto the bed. Suddenly he was afraid of it, as if it had a will of its own that was urging him to a place he did not want to go. "I was only wondering…what it feels like to die." He dropped his gaze from Mithrandir's piercing blue eyes. "Is it cold? Can one feel one's breath leave the body? Does the darkness penetrate quickly like a dart or slowly like a poison?"

Strangely, Mithrandir smiled. "Let me tell you something about death," he said gently. Faramir moved aside on the bed for him to sit. "When a man dies, Faramir, the pain is only in his body, not in his soul. Though his body is broken, his soul remains whole, unaltered. It is a beautiful thing, death. The spirit sails over a great expanse of deep blue seas, past Eressëa, unto a land that in the Elvish tongue is called Valinor. It is another world there, where all turns to silver glass. This fragile world seems to roll away, and then you can see it…the shores of white followed by fields of everlasting green, stretching on forever beneath a swift sunrise…" Mithrandir seemed almost enchanted, for his eyes were clouded over and his smile grew. "And that isn't a terrible fate, Faramir. That isn't a terrible fate."

Faramir could say nothing. Once again he saw Aerandir's smiling face in his mind, but this time he was surrounded by a world of silver glass and white shores and green fields beneath a swift sunrise. It was a world absent of pain, and death became a thing of the past, long forgotten as a part of a time and a place that one no longer belonged to. Aerandir was…happy.

"Mithrandir…how do you know so much about death?" he asked slowly. "How do you know what Valinor looks like?"

The wizard's eyes twinkled. "I was not always as you see me now, bundled up in grey rags and walking this world bent upon an old staff." A distant look came into his eyes, and he sighed. "Olórin I was once, in a time that has been lost for many long ages. It was my name in the West, beyond the shores of this world."

Faramir stared in awe at the old man. "What are you, then?"

Mithrandir laughed, and his mystical air seemed to vanish. "I am a wizard, of course!" He tapped the side of his nose and winked, and Faramir had the distinct impression that there was much to this wizard that was hidden beneath the grey rags.

"The more important question, young Faramir, is: What are _you_? The time has come for you to decide what kind of man you are going to grow into. Will you be a puppet, bent beneath your father's oppression? Will you be a soldier, trained to kill without any thought or regard for those who meet your blade? Will you be a lost soul, wandering this world without purpose and with no knowledge of your surroundings?"

"Is it possible to be nothing?" asked Faramir quietly. He shook his head. "That is what I am. Nothing. I should leave Gondor. I bring nothing but shame to my father and my country."

"According to your father, perhaps," Mithrandir scoffed. "Growing into a man also means that you must look at things from your own point of view, not others'. You must form your own opinions, not just rely on the opinions of those around you."

"Truly, Mithrandir, I want nothing more than to be a scholar." Faramir laughed bitterly, mocking himself. "But what good is that? I read and I write and I learn music, but when it is put to the test what good is scholarship in battle? If I was a devoted soldier like Boromir, Aerandir would still be alive."

"For all you know, he would still have died," said Mithrandir sternly. "You cannot rewrite the past. If you truly wish to be a scholar, then you should devote yourself to your studies. It is a noble profession, one fitting of a lord's son."

"Not the Lord Denethor's son."

"The Lord Denethor has no right to force anything upon you." Mithrandir's eyebrows beetled angrily. "Only you can decide what kind of man you shall become."

"Then shall I lock myself away in the Tower and read until the world fades away and I can live with my conscience in peace?"

Mithrandir reached into his cloak and withdrew a book from some hidden pocket. He handed it to Faramir. "I have given you many books over the years, Faramir," he said, "but none so important as this one. I have waited to give it to you until I deemed you ready. I believe that with the death of your young friend, you have finally reached that point."

Faramir took the book carefully and opened the cover. The first page was blank. He flipped through the other pages and found nothing but empty white paper. "There is nothing written," said Faramir, confused.

"Wrong. There is nothing written _yet_. Remember, Faramir, that no matter how many books you read, you must still author your own life. Take it, write in it what you will. Someday I will return to read what you have written. Until that day, never stop writing. Your life will be enclosed within these pages, Faramir. It is up to you to write it the way you see it, not the way that others see it. It is the most important task that can be given to a man, and now I give it to you."

Faramir's eyes were captured by the blank pages. "How will I know what to write?" he asked. Mithrandir did not answer, and when Faramir looked up, the wizard was gone.

He stared at the book, tracing the lines on the cover with his finger. For many long hours he allowed his mind to wander freely, until at last, heavy with weariness, he fell into slumber.

It was late the next day when he woke, and Mithrandir's book was tucked carefully beneath his arm. It was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes. He paused for only a moment, then took the book over to his desk, dipped his quill in ink, and opened to the first page. His hesitation lasted for only an instant longer, and then he wrote the date in graceful calligraphy:

_**26 Girithron, T.A. 3000**_

What does one say when addressing a future that did not yet exist? Well, he supposed they must know his name.

_**I am Faramir, son of Denethor, and—**_

And what? What could follow such a declaration? He was Faramir, son of Denethor. Did he exist beyond that definition? Was there a self hidden somewhere his father had not yet found?

Yes. There must be.

**_—and stories have been my refuge for as long as I can remember. Mithrandir, my faithful mentor, has taught me the art of the Elvish language and given to me as many books as I can devour. When last we spoke, he said this to me: "Remember, Faramir, that no matter how many books you read, you must still author your own life." So now I am going to write a story of my own—_**

Faramir's quill froze over the page for a second, then swept over the page to write the definitive phrase:

**_—my story._**

----------------


	12. Not My Father's Son

Chapter XII – Not My Father's Son

The sun shines blindingly down upon the city Eltarma, lighting up the pillar-shaped fountain that graces the central square outside my window. It is said that in the sunlight the water falling from the pillar resembles a thousand falling stars, giving the city its name: Star Pillar. To me it seems that only tears fall from the pillar, mirroring the tears that gather in my own eyes.

'Faramir was never fond of war.'

That was what Legolas told me. _Not fond of war_. Now I realize that this was more of an understatement than I could ever have fathomed. '_Not fond_' did not begin to describe the loathing that my father held for war, the disgust and the hatred. His abhorrence for battle was the very thing that prompted him to begin his own life story. It was his search to find himself, to find the man he wished to become, that he wrote within these pages. His desperation to escape the horrors of everything around him is echoed within each word. It must have been like a fantasy to him, his own world where he could record things as they were in his heart and not how he was forced to see them.

How could he ever have loved me? How could he have forced himself to look upon me, to see the love of battle and the thirst for excitement in my eyes, and yet call me his son? Was he ashamed of me? Did I choose a path that he did not intend for me?

Or perhaps he had intended no path to begin with. Perhaps my father truly wished for me to grow and choose my own path, and he respected whichever choice I made. It was an act of such selflessness that I cannot fathom echoing it with my son. How can I lay aside everything I believe in, every principle I hold most dear, so that I can accommodate my son's decisions? Could I watch Barahir become a reclusive scholar, bent on his studies and nothing else, shunning the military life that I have tried to encourage in him? Could I watch him reject all that I represent? Or is that, after all, what a parents job is? To teach but not to force, to strengthen but not to hone, to shelter…and then let go?

I believed my father to be old, bent upon his ways, stubborn to a fault. I always knew, or thought I knew, that he did not understand how I thought or why I acted the way I did because he was so different than I. Now I realize that he understood me better than I understood myself. He loathed the profession I chose, and yet he retained the offer of a warm, open love for me. It was I, not he, who turned away from the other because of differences. He could never truly appreciate me as his son, I thought. He was a politician. He did not understand war.

Faramir did understand war. He fought and suffered and lost dear friends just as I have. He grieved and allowed a part of his heart to harden into bitterness and hatred, just as I have. The only difference between us is that his hatred was for the act of war whereas mine is for the enemy. He was ready to give up his life as a soldier the instant he tasted death; I wanted to become the best soldier in Gondor when my friends were slain.

I do not believe my son Barahir is capable of hatred. He does not enjoy soldiering the way I do, but he fulfills his duties and works as hard is he is able without complaint. Obedient, he is. Submissive, even. When he is given an order, he follows it without question, even if it endangers his own life.

What have I done, sending him to war in a foreign world of ash and dust? Will he return? Should I even hope for his survival? Will it hurt only more if I pray for his safe return, only to be told one day that my only son, only child, is dead?

What have I done?

"My Lords, it is my honor and my privilege to introduce to you Elboron son of Faramir, Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien, and Lord of Emyn Arnen," Legolas says with a flourished bow. In turn, each elf-lord bows low as Legolas speaks his name. "Elfain, son of Erestor of Rivendell. Arama, son of Elrohir of Rivendell. Celorod, son of Celeborn of Lothlórien. Haldir, son of Herion of Lothlórien. Faramith, son of Thranduil of Mirkwood. Gelinhir, son of Thranduil of Mirkwood, and his son Girithil. Krismoth, son of…"

I incline my head respectfully to the elf-lords. Although most of their names, especially the names of their sires, sound familiar, I can place only three of them; Faramith and Gelinhir are Legolas' brothers, and Girithil is his nephew. Many of the others have fathers of great renown, whose names I have heard mingled in song, but whose glory is now forgotten except by the scholars.

A slight taste of bitterness entered my mouth when he introduced me as Elboron, _son of Faramir_. Again I am being compared to him! Measured to his worth as his son and not as myself!

Something stops me in mid-thought. Should I truly be ashamed to be called his son? Is it embarrassing that I should be compared to him, or is it the greatest compliment that Legolas can give to me? Well do I know the esteem held by all Gondor for my father, even by the Elves of Ithilien. They believed him to be a man apart from most, a true throwback to the Númenorean race. In him, they said, wisdom was found which nearly matched the wisdom of the Elves, yet his kindness and generosity kept him humble.

Perhaps by naming me '_son of Faramir_', Legolas is truly attesting to the quality of my heritage. I cannot see it so. I am nothing like my father, and I never wanted to be. I was all too happy to be a soldier and remain a soldier forever. I would have been happier if the Stewardship had never passed to me. Yet in this case, perhaps my view is not the only important one.

It is a strange thought. I am not accustomed to seeing things from other points of view, particularly from the points of view of Elves. If it is a compliment for Legolas to give, then should it be a compliment for me to receive?

Legolas' eyes flicker towards me, as if he can sense by some hint in my face what I am thinking. It is an unnerving thought, and I look away quickly. Whether a compliment or not, it is clearly how Legolas sees me. Perhaps it is not a comparison at all, but merely the statement of a fact. After all, he introduced each of the lords with the names of their sires, and in records I am Steward Elboron, son of Faramir. It only makes me angry because my father and I fought continually and rarely, if ever, agreed upon a subject. If it were otherwise, would I appreciate the connection of his name to mine?

Or is it something completely different, and do I recoil at the addition of '_son of Faramir_' because somewhere I am coming to realize that I never deserved to call him my father?

"It is an honor to meet the son of Lord Faramir," says one of the elf-lords, the one Legolas introduced as Elfain. The reference to my father rankles me still, but I try to remember that they intend it as a compliment. "A good man, Faramir. There is not one of us here who does not lament his loss." A murmur of agreement flickers around the table.

"It is a great loss to Gondor," I say evenly, being careful not to mention myself. Not only would it induce pity from the elf-lords, but it would also dredge up the pain of the memoir that is lurking in the back of my mind at every moment. I do not pass a waking minute without longing to read more of my father's stories of his childhood, yet at the same time I dread opening the pages again to find myself accosted by further guilt.

"A terrible loss," says Elfain gravely, nodding. "Yet I am glad for him. He was very weary and his pain was great. If any man deserves to rest for eternity beyond the circles of this world, it is Faramir."

"Indeed." A slight frown forces itself onto my face, and I am not sure whether it is of grief over my father's death or of doubt in myself. What shall the elf-lords think of me when they realize that I am not my father's son? Will they expect me to rule Ithilien with the same judgment as he? Do they assume that I am capable of the same political brilliance as Faramir? I know in my heart that I am not. Within the realm of military matters, I may perhaps be able to hold my own in a council, but outside that of that small area, I am hopeless in politics. My mind does not easily comprehend the difference between what is good and what is bad for the people; I judge by what would be good and bad for myself, but that is frequently erroneous. I do not have the talent of speaking spontaneously, without prior preparation, and public speaking in general is something I have a particular dread for. I do not have the relationship with Elessar that my father had, and so I will not be able to do his will on the Council as perfectly my father.

My first meeting with the Council in Minas Tirith is in three days time. I have taken leave from my duties for long enough. My reprieve cannot last forever. I fear to take up my duties as Steward, for somewhere in my heart I know that I cannot hope to fulfill them.

"As you know," Legolas adds gently, "Steward Elboron is only just returning from a long campaign in Nurn where he has been commanding the King's forces. It may be some time before he acclimates himself with Ithilien again and becomes familiar with the problems we face currently here in our kingdom beneath the leaves." Legolas' smile is meant to be comforting, but it only serves to irritate me. It is as if he is implying that I will have difficulty living in the woods again after six years living beneath ashen clouds!

"I do not demand his presence at this council, except as a guest that he may witness our procedures." Legolas bows his head politely. "He is welcome in Eltarma and in the sister city Ithilduin at all times as an honored friend of the Elves of Ithilien."

"Thank you, Prince Legolas," I say with a bow. "Naturally I offer the same to my Elven neighbors. Your people are free to come and go in my cities as they will, and they shall be received warmly into Imeryn upon any occasion." The smiles of the elf-lords indicate that I have spoken well, and I subconsciously breathe a sigh of relief.

"The hospitality of the Steward is always appreciated." Legolas gestures for the council to be seated, and I take my own place to his left. It does not help my nerves to know that my father once sat in this place upon the council.

The Elves proceed to outline the course of the council, speaking briefly regarding the many subjects that require attention. Irregularity of crops, guard posts in far South Ithilien, the threat of the river Ithilduin to the city of the same name during the flooding season, and a proposition regarding the building of a grand new library for Eltarma; all of these things are included in the long, dreary session. Now that I finally have a taste of politics, I regret more than ever having called my father a lesser man for being a politician. Great Eru, this is no less challenging than waging war! It is like a battle against one's own boredom! I would take a sword and a horde of ravaging heathens any day!

The Elves look to me only on occasion for my opinion, and I speak only very briefly upon the subject before, thankfully, they move on to other arguments. They must be aware of my discomfort, and yet they look to me for guidance nonetheless! Oh, is it as I feared? Do they think I am my father?

"Steward Elboron," begins Gelinhir, one of Legolas' brothers. "Do you believe our treasury would be wisely spent on a library for Eltarma?"

This must be a trick question, a joke, a test. Surely they cannot truly be asking my opinion on the building of a _library_?

"As I have only recently returned to Ithilien, it is difficult for me to judge," I say awkwardly. "Are there no other needs in Eltarma which would be better fulfilled with such an expense?"

"None at present," Legolas answers promptly. "We have homes now enough to accommodate all of our families, plus dozens more. We are anticipating another three families from Mirkwood by the end of the month."

"Your military requirements are met satisfactorily?"

"Yes. All guards are equipped, and we have warehouses of weapons in case the need for them should arrive."

"It only seems that a library is such a luxury," I start hesitantly. "I would not like to see any facet of Eltarma's structure fail or falter because of expenditure on such an…extraneous project."

There is a pause, and Gelinhir exchanges a brief glance with another elf-lord. I can see it in their eyes. It was a test, of a sort. A test to see my character. Faramir, I realize now too late, would have instantly agreed to the construction of a library for Eltarma. He would probably have gladly donated from his own wealth to contribute to the project. Now the elf-lords understand. I am not like him.

Quickly, Legolas nods. "I agree with you, Lord Elboron. The construction of a library should be considered only under circumstances allowing such superfluous costs. Aware as I am of the stability of Eltarma and the Elven kingdom of Ithilien, I believe that we are now able to pour our resources into such a project. It is a worthy aspiration, and a goal I have dreamed of for Ithilien since I moved here with my brothers to begin the founding of Eltarma."

"You know better than I. If you believe it to be in the best interest for Eltarma, then by all means." I fall silent immediately, and the elf-lords fall back to arranging the details of the endeavor, calculating the amount of labor, stone, glass, and funds which will be required for the construction of such a library. This I follow easily: raw figures, numbers, bodies to be counted. The level of organization and workforce necessary for a construction effort is similar to that for an army. Soon, though, they drop into pointless bickering. Legolas suggests recruiting the help of the dwarves; perhaps Gimli and his brethren in Aglarond will be inclined to contribute. Several other elf-lords protest, insisting that a work of such beauty must be developed by Elves alone. It is enough to drive one mad, this banter!

This is what my father preferred to warfare?


	13. Our Secret

Chapter XIII – Our Secret

Silver trumpets break the air, heralding my arrival at the White City. My passage throughout Gondor seems to be scrutinized from all angles now. It is bothersome to me, if only because I can go nowhere without being declared as the Steward. Even as a captain-general I was given more freedom than this! Now it is as though I am the pet of Gondor, like a favorite child who is constantly watched due to the smothering love of his parents.

"Greetings, my Lord," says the guard at the Gate, bowing low. My horse stamps impatiently, mirroring my own emotions. "His Majesty awaits you in the Tower. Welcome to Minas Tirith." With another bow, he beckons me forward into the city. I keep my horse checked at a quick trot. As eager as I am to reach the Citadel, I know that it would be unfitting for the Steward of Gondor to charge up the seven levels like a whirlwind.

My heart is pounding like a drum in my ears. The council in Ithilien is but an honorary function of the Steward. This is the true home of my new duty: Minas Tirith, City of Kings. Here I will meet with the Council of Gondor, the ruling legislative body of the kingdom. I shall be the frequent guest of honor at the table of King Elessar and Queen Evenstar, and here will I be buried when the time of my death finally comes, as my father was buried here. This city is forever. Built upon the side of the mountain as if carved there in some ancient time long past, perhaps hewn out of the rock itself. Minas Tirith will never fade, though kings and stewards may come and go. It is a lasting legacy, a testament to the undiminished power of Gondor.

It is, at this moment, a monument that strikes fear into my heart. I am not ready for this. I should not have been born Faramir's son. Adrahil, his first son, should have lived. It would have been better even if Nimhiril had been born the eldest, and I perhaps the younger. Surely they would have accepted a Stewardess instead of a Steward? Nimhiril is a true scholar, just as our father was. She would have done well in my place.

Suddenly I realize that I have not seen my sister since our father's funeral. Sequestered in Ithilien, I have kept only to myself and thought of no one but myself for weeks, perhaps even a month by now. How selfish I have been! I am the older brother. I am supposed to protect my baby sister, and yet I have only wallowed in self-pity over my father's memoir and my failings with my son! My guilt is only made worse by the realization that on top of everything else, I have also been neglecting my sister.

My herald rides before me, bearing the white standard of the Steward. Folk turn to stare at me as I ride past, still unable, I think, to imagine me in my father's stead. The grief of Minas Tirith is still fresh, despite the month that has passed since the funeral. To these people, Faramir must have been more than a politician. Somehow he was their cause for hope, their hero when the sky ahead was dark, their guide through shadowed times. They idolized him as most societies revere their war heroes, yet my father was not a war hero as far as I know. A soldier, yes; I know that he fought in the War of the Ring. But he could not have been a hero. He despised war too much for that.

I, however, am a war hero, renowned for my military record throughout Gondor. And yet, their admiration does not extend to me. I am not held in the same high esteem as my father was. They do not behold me with the half-worshiping gazes with which they beheld my father. What did my father have that made him immortal in their eyes? What could have wrought such pure and loyal love from his people? Even my soldiers do not look to me with the same veneration as these folk looked to my father. He captured the hearts of all. Can I do the same? I doubt it.

A stable hand waits in the Citadel to take my horse, and I dismount quickly. My herald hesitates, unsure, but I wave him off.

"You may be dismissed until I summon you," I say. "I have no further need of you for the moment. Enjoy yourself in the city as you will." He nods and about-faces on his horse to ride back to the lower levels of the city where there is food and drink and merriment to be found. I thank the stable hand and walk solemnly across the cobblestones of the courtyard towards the Tower of Ecthelion where the King awaits me.

The White Tree is in full bloom now that it is spring. The flowers are pale blue in the center surrounded by pristine white petals. The courtyard is strewn with the flowers, and the Fountain Guards still keep watch over the beloved Tree of Gondor. I have a memory from childhood of my father promising my mother that when it bloomed he would weave the blossoms into her cascading blonde hair so that her beauty could shine by comparison with the dazzling flowers. My mother died decades before the Tree began to bloom. It was a promise my father never kept. I wonder bitterly if he even remembered the promise, if he even paused to grieve over the fallen petals that would never adorn her hair.

More guards bow as they open the doors of the Tower for me, but I have grown accustomed to ignoring their customary obeisance. The King's office is higher up in the Tower, and I climb what feels like hundreds of stairs before I reach the proper level. The joints in my knees begin to ache with the pressure; old age seems to be starting to catch up with me at last. I feel a twist of pain in my heart. Perhaps I will never ride to battle again. Perhaps soon I will even be unable to wield a sword gracefully. The human body can only withstand so much abuse in a lifetime, it would seem.

I knock. I hear a few soft footsteps, and then the King opens the door. He is smiling, and I manage to return the pleasantry.

"Elboron." He clasps me firmly about my shoulders, and a sprinkle of grim laughter escapes my lips. "Elboron. It is so good to see you again."

"Likewise, Elessar." I meet his eyes, but only barely. In the back of my minds lurks the memory of the memoir that rests in my robe pocket, seemingly burning a hole in my flesh. I should tell him. He was Faramir's closest friend. He has a right to know. But…I cannot. I cannot open up my heart and everything that has been tormenting me over the last month and reveal it to the King! Everything has become too…personal to me. These stories…they aren't merely stories. They represent, somehow, a connection between me and my father, the only connection I have left and the only chance I have for forgiveness. I cannot explain how, but they do.

"I was not expecting you until morning," Elessar continues with a smile. "You have an appreciation for being early, I see. Like your father."

"I did not know that he liked being early," I say quickly, although I know it is a lie. Elessar of all people cannot gain the impression of me that I am like my father. The king relies upon his steward too heavily to work under false pretenses. "I merely prefer riding while the sunlight lasts, rather than through the night."

"Ah. Of course." Elessar glances around the room absently, apparently thinking wistfully of Faramir. The pain that lingers in his heart is like an echo to my own. What must it be like for him to be suddenly forced to adjust to a new Steward, after working with Faramir for more than seventy years? To suffer through such an abrupt change after losing a dear friend? Will he ever trust me the way he trusted my father? Is it even possible for such a bond to be established now, when I am already in my eighth decade and will probably not outlive my father's age of one hundred and twenty?

"I have not forgotten the chest I gave to you," he says suddenly. "I hope you found what you were searching for."

My heart leaps fearfully into my throat, and I swallow hard to tame its wild beating. "I-I found nothing in the chest," I say limply. It is not a lie, but neither is it the whole truth. "It was empty when I opened it."

Elessar closes his eyes and looks away again. Immediately I regret lying to him, but I do not wish to share with him what I found.

"It was only to be expected," says Elessar with a sigh. His tone is consoling, but whether it is aimed towards me or towards himself I cannot say. He gives me a thin smile. "I suppose that Faramir took the secrets of his past with him to the grave. How I wish that we had spoken more…" Now there is a sense of pain and melancholy regret in his voice. I believe I know what he is thinking: He should not have taken his time with Faramir for granted. There had always seemed to be enough time, but now it is gone forever.

It is a feeling with which I can easily sympathize. Ever was I angry with my father concerning one trivial matter or another, yet I always expected to have time to exchange apologies and return to civil terms with him. When I left for Nurn six years ago…I never expected…I could not have known…that it would be the very last time I would ever see my father before his death. He asked for forgiveness, and I granted it to him. It did not occur to me in those final moments to beg for his forgiveness in return. More painful than this is the dark knowledge that vexes my heart the most, the knowledge that I killed him. By leaving without an apology, without a farewell, headed for the battlefront, I killed my father. There is no forgiveness great enough to overturn the sickly guilt I feel in the pit of my stomach.

"If you find anything, please, let me know," says Elessar finally, breaking the silence. "There may be things hidden away in Imeryn somewhere that have remained in the shadows for years now."

"Yes, but I have no time to look. I was forced to burn many of his old things, merely for the lack of space to keep them in and time to spend looking through them." Again, it is only a half-truth. True, I burned many of my father's old things, but _not_ his memoir.

"I understand." Elessar puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. "I am sorry that I could not do more for you, my son."

"It is unimportant," I say hastily. "I do not dwell on it, and I wish that you would not either, my liege."

"Very well. Let us not dwell on the past." He motioned to a seat. "Will you sit and talk with me for a time, at least? How is my daughter? I hope the two of you are seriously considering giving me more grandchildren."

Surprisingly, I am still able to blush at eighty-one years of age. "Laurelindë has hoped for more children, Elessar," I admit. "We are only worried that with my new responsibilities…"

Elessar laughs. "Nonsense! I am King, and look at how many children I have! A son and no less than eleven daughters! Not to mention twenty-two grandchildren and one on the way."

"You and the Queen are certainly…" I pause to find the right word. "…energetic, my liege." Elessar laughs again. "I would like to stay and share conversation with you, Elessar, but I promised myself that I would visit Nimhiril while I am in the city. I feel as though I have been neglecting her of late."

Elessar nods. "By all means, go to your sister. I shall see you in the morning for the Council."

We say our parting words and I turn to leave, but I pause before I reach the door. "Elessar," I say haltingly, "have you…have you any news from Eldarion?"

Elessar's face suddenly becomes very grave. "Yes. He sends letters almost weekly. He is healthy and strong, as always, but he fears the war is going badly."

I feel a strong urge to curse loudly, but I restrain myself in the King's presence. "Has he said anything of my son Barahir?"

The King pauses just long enough to send fear shooting through my heart.

"Whatever it is, tell me, please," I beg him. "I would hear it rather than remain in the dark!"

"Barahir is well," says Elessar slowly. "He fights easily and intelligently, but… Elboron, you must promise me that you will not be distraught by what Eldarion has said of your son in his letters."

"I promise you," I say hastily. "Please, tell me what it is, whatever it is."

"He is fighting well, but Eldarion says that he is afraid, or at least homesick. He keeps apart from the other soldiers, often finding places where he can be alone and weeping for hours. Eldarion worries that it is too much too soon for him."

Oh, Eru, what have I done?

I bow. "Thank you, my liege. I will see you in the morning."

What have I _done_?

* * *

I creep slowly into the room in the Houses of Healing where I am told my sister can be found. She seems to be hard at work, and she does not notice me when I slip behind her.

"Nimhiril?"

"I'm busy, Elboron."

Surprised, I do not know what to say. Nimhiril only gets like this when something is bothering her, eating away at her inside. It is the way she has always been, since our childhood together. It is the little part of her that is like our mother and not our father, getting angry and irritable when she is upset instead of sharing the pain with her friends and family.

"Nimhiril…"

She pretends not to hear me, absorbed in the tedious work of re-labeling and re-shelving the various tonics and draughts and medicines that lie before her on the table. I place my hand tenderly over hers, but she jerks it away cruelly.

"If I have done something wrong, I would have you tell me what it is," I insist, trying desperately to get her to speak. I hear a soft choking sound, and only now do I realize that she is crying. "Oh, Nimhiril… Please, do not weep. Speak to me, as you did when we were children? Do you remember how we would talk for hours, playing games in the gardens and tormenting the old gardeners?"

Nimhiril shakes her head. "Elboron, please. I wish to be alone."

"The other healers tell me that you have become reclusive." I struggle to make my voice gentler still, but it still sounds gruff even to my own ears. "That is not the Nimhiril I know. Why are you so angry?"

She does not answer.

"Nimhiril, honestly."

Still nothing.

"I have just come from Eltarma. They are planning to build a new library there." Still no response. Nimhiril is definitely not herself. Normally such news would make her quite nearly leap for joy, and she would demand to be included in the project.

"What good are libraries?" she mutters, practically flinging a newly labeled bottle onto the nearest shelf. "They harbor old, dusty books, like memories out of a past no one remembers and no one cares about."

Shock spreads across my face. "I never thought I would hear you repeat _my _opinion of libraries," I tease. Again she is silent. "Nimhiril, speak with me! I will order you, if I must! I am the Steward now!"

"Yes, but you are still my brother, and I can still tell you you're a foolish little boy if I choose. In any case, I'm still just a foolish little girl."

I remain silent for once, because I can tell that she is about to tell me what I want to know. I know my sister too well.

"I should have been there." Her head falls pathetically between her shoulders. "I should have been there to help him. I could have saved him. I knew just the herbs he needed, just the medicine that could have made him live. If I had only _been _there!"

Gently, I pull her into an embrace. "Nimhiril, you were not there, and you cannot change that now."

"I had been helping him for weeks in Minas Tirith!" Her tears are at the verge of spilling over. "Do you know how old he became while you were gone, Elboron? He was in constant pain, and he began struggling to do even the most mundane tasks! He needed help to get out of bed, to find his way to the feast hall, to take care of himself! He was as if he stopped _caring_!" With the final word, she slams another bottle down, and this time it breaks open, spilling the oozing contents all over the table.

For the hundredth time, my guilt flares painfully. "Nimhiril…that was my fault…not yours…"

"That's not the point!" she cries. "I was going to come to Ithilien with him, to help him! I told him that I would be there up till the very end! I promised him that I would not leave him alone when he left us!"

"He was not alone," I remind her with difficulty. "I held his hand as he faded from this world. He was not alone."

"Yes, but I could have _saved _him! Even if I could not have saved him, I could have at least eased his pain!" A heavy sob forces itself past Nimhiril's lips. "Is it not enough that with he lost Mother because of my birth? Why must I have failed him at the last, just as I have always failed him?"

"You know he never blamed you for that," I say harshly. "There was never a moment of his life when he blamed you for Mother's death! If anything he blamed himself!"

Nimhiril shakes her head. "I must give up healing, Elboron. I cannot force myself to heal others when I could not save the ones I love the most! I'm giving it up. I'm giving it up. I've already decided."

I close my eyes slowly. The tale of Aerandir's death from my father's memoir springs to mind automatically, as if summoned from a pocket in my mind. "You cannot give up, Nimhiril. If you give up on who you are…then what will you be? Nothing? No, you cannot be nothing. You must find the person you truly are. For you, that is healing. For Father, it was scholarship. He searched to find who he was, and he wrote…" I pause, reluctant to share my long-kept secret with someone else, even my own sister. "…he wrote his own story. His life story. I-I have it, Nimhiril. I have his story." I slide the battered book from within my robe. "They are only vignettes, really. Glimpses of moments in his life that he believed were important. I…I have already learned more about him than I learned while he was alive." Tenderly, I press the faded book into my sister's hands. "Here. Read it. Then return to me, and we can talk. This is our father, Nimhiril. And…it can be us, too. Our secret."

Nimhiril's gaze is fixed in awe upon the little book, unable to take her eyes off of it. "This is truly his story?" Her voice is shaking. "This is…him?" She opens to the first page and reads the first few lines:

_**26 Girithron, T.A. 3000**_

_**I am Faramir, son of Denethor…**_

"Dear Eru…" Tears start to well in her eyes, and she hugs it close to her. "It…it really is his!"

"Yes. I have been reading it for weeks now. It is all that we have left of him, Nimhiril. I swear, I have been learning so much since I began reading it. Everything that I have believed until this point…" I shake my head. "All of it has been such nonsense. I have made so many mistakes. I have put everything out of perspective. This is what has taught me that _I_ was at fault, not Father! This is what has taught me that I should never have forced Barahir into the army! This is what has been haunting my thoughts day and night for the past month! Nimhiril…" I laugh weakly. "Oh, Nimhiril. Once you read it, you will understand. Everything makes so much _sense _now. If only I had known…"

"If you really believe that you have come to a new understanding of your life, at least now you can fix it," says Nimhiril gently.

"Yes. And now you can fix your life. Starting now." I put my hands on her shoulders. "Nimhiril, don't give up healing. Please. It would be like me giving up soldiering. I wouldn't do it. I couldn't do it, not in my heart. I would always be clinging to the memory of what I once had, and so will you if you go through with this."

Nimhiril eyes me strangely for a moment, then laughs. "Why, Elboron!" she exclaims. "How wise you have grown!"

A crooked smile creeps across my lips. "I try."


	14. Fighting Back

Chapter XIV – Fighting Back

_**17 Narwain, T.A. 3001**_

**_I am so lonely. The ones I love the most ever seem to be the furthest away from my heart. This day is a day that will never leave my memory, for it was a blacker day than any I have seen. _Ai_, I am so very lonely…_**

-----------­

Two brothers sat upon the stone wall of the Citadel, hurling pebbles absently into the pool of clear water that surrounded the White Tree. The Citadel Guards watched them warily but said nothing. It was a frequent pastime of the Lords Boromir and Faramir, even now that Boromir had grown to manhood.

"How can you stand it?" asked Faramir softly, bowing his head between his shoulders.

"Stand what?" asked Boromir, aiming a pebble for the far side of the pool where a feather floated, twirling about on the surface. The stone hit its mark perfectly.

"Battle."

Boromir shrugged. "It is exciting. It sends such a thrill through my heart. It… I cannot explain it. It is strange."

"What do you mean, strange?" Faramir aimed his pebble for a root of the White Tree that stuck up out of the pool. The shot missed but landed nearby.

"I don't know. You've been in battle. You ought to know what I mean, Fari."

"Don't call me that."

"Sorry."

"I just…" Faramir let his hand fall before he threw another pebble, and he rolled it about in his hand. It was soft, smooth, and almost perfectly spherical. "You love it so. I can see it. Everyone can see it. It is written in yours eyes. For me… I-I would rather die than face it again. I do not understand how you can go on when you watch your friends die…"

"I have never seen a friend die," said Boromir softly. Faramir closed his eyes, biting back tears. "I suppose it is… Well, it is strange, as I said. It is like knowing…that you're the only one who can do what you're about to do. And then you do it. And that feeling… That…that triumph… Faramir, if you could understand what I meant… Long has Gondor been overshadowed by the evil of Mordor. There may come a time very soon when everything you and I have known will become a thing of the past. Very soon, Faramir, there may come a time when darkness comes to Gondor once more. I…I can feel it. I cannot explain it. The battle you and I will fight then… Oh, Faramir, it will be the greatest victory the world has ever seen! We will defeat the darkness, Faramir. You and I, together. What greater purpose is there for Man than that?"

"I cannot believe that it is the purpose of Man to slay hordes of mindless creatures, to wander beneath black skies and an ever-growing danger." Faramir shook his head. "You speak of dreams, Boromir. Of fantasies. War is not really like that."

Boromir was silent, and Faramir finally threw his pebble into the water. It fell with a soft _kerplunk_.

"Father would have me fight," whispered Faramir. "Captain Seregorn would have me fight. Mablung, Damrod… All of them. They hate me so…"

"That is not true, Faramir, and you know that," said Boromir sternly. "They simply do not understand why you would—"

"Boromir, I know that Mablung sent you to talk to me." Faramir looked down. "You don't have to pretend. But I cannot do what they want of me. I cannot fight. Boromir, I hate it so much. Please, do not make me fight!"

"No one is going to make you fight, Faramir."

"Father will…"

"How can he make you fight?"

"I do not know, but he will find a way."

"You are such an accomplished archer…"

"What right is it of mine, of yours, of anyone's to decide who should live and who should die?" snapped Faramir. "What right have we to determine a man's fate? Who decided Aerandir's fate? Can you tell me that? Who decided that Aerandir had to die?"

"Faramir, some things are beyond our grasp…"

"Don't quote Mithrandir!" shouted Faramir. "You don't like him any more than Father does! You're only trying to make me feel better!"

"Isn't that what I am supposed to be doing?"

"No! You cannot make me feel better! You don't understand, and you don't want to! You've never wanted to!"

Boromir sighed. "Faramir."

"Stop treating me like a child!"

"I am not treating you like a child! For Eru's sake, Faramir! Oh, I give up!" Boromir stood and stormed off angrily, and Faramir clenched his hands into fists and wept silent, bitter tears. He was being horrible to Boromir, and he didn't care. Boromir always thought he knew better. He always had to force his way whenever he didn't get the answer he wanted. Selfish, cold, childlike. Faramir's anger dissipated as he realized that he was describing not Boromir, but himself.

Boromir and Denethor were always so patient with him. They were continually forced to tolerate his inadequacy, his flaws, his hesitations.

"I do not deserve them," whispered Faramir. "I have never deserved them… I just want to be better… Why can't I be better?"

"Lord Faramir." A servant bowed before him, and Faramir turned absently. "Your father requests an audience with you." Faramir shivered and hurried towards the Tower where his father would be waiting for him. The huge black doors swung open silently on their hinges, and Faramir passed slowly down the hall between rows of stone statues.

Faramir fell to one knee before his father. "You summoned me, my Lord?" he asked softly, his eyes cast upon the ground. He already knew the look that would pierce him the moment he looked up, and he dreaded it.

"Captain Seregorn will be informing the boy's parents tomorrow," said Denethor coolly, folding his hands in front of him. "Well, what do you have to say for yourself?"

Faramir was silent. What did he have to say for himself? What was there to be said? He had made a mistake, Aerandir had died, and there was nothing he could do to change that. Faramir struggled to find words to speak, but nothing came out of his mouth.

"Speak, boy!"

"I…" Faramir shook his head. "I have nothing to say, sir. I have no excuses. I know the weight of my error, and I am ready and willing to bear punishment for it. Whatever you command, Father…"

Both said nothing for a long while, and silence crept between them like the deathly quiet of a winter's midnight when the cold penetrates the heart and stops the blood so that all motion and thought cease to exist. At long last, Denethor stood and marched solemnly towards the doors at the end of the hall.

"Come," he said gravely. Faramir followed him obediently, trying to imagine what punishment could possibly be fitting for him. He scarcely paid attention to where Denethor was leading him until he heard the _clang-clack-swish_ of a fencing court. It was then that Faramir realized what his father intended to do.

"Please, Father," said Faramir breathlessly. "Do not do this to me… I beg of you…"

"Silence," said Denethor simply, quieting his son with a single word. "You will do what I command. No more and no less. Choose your sword."

Denethor ordered the occupants of the court to leave, and the father and son were left alone with each other. Denethor unsheathed his own blade, the same blade that, it was said, he had wielded when he fought side by side with the mysterious Thorongil, war hero of Gondor's past. The blade gleamed wickedly in the pale morning light, and Faramir steadied his breath with difficulty.

"I-I cannot fight you," stammered Faramir.

"And why is that?" Denethor demanded.

"I… You are my father," said Faramir, almost pleading.

"Yes," said Denethor sternly. "And it is past time your father teaches you a lesson in responsibility that you shan't easily forget. Choose your sword."

Faramir remembered what Mithrandir had said about becoming a puppet beneath Denethor's shadow, and his fear suddenly melted away. "No," he said firmly. "I will not fight you. I will not fight anyone. You cannot force me to fight."

Denethor launched himself towards Faramir was surprising speed, and Faramir barely managed to dodge the swift strike. Caught off guard by the sudden attack, Faramir stumbled. Denethor took advantage of the moment to place a kick behind Faramir's knee and send him toppling to the ground.

"Choose your sword," said Denethor with slow deliberation, standing over his son.

"No!" cried Faramir. "I will not!"

Denethor seized Faramir by his tunic and dragged him upright, shoving him viciously towards the sword rack. "Choose your sword, or face me unarmed," said Denethor warningly.

Faramir was shaking, but he refused to back down. "I will not fight."

Denethor sprang towards him again, but Faramir stood his ground. Denethor did not allow the blade to strike Faramir, but he slammed into his son hard and sent him flying backwards. Blow after blow swung towards Faramir, and he barely managed to dodge as Denethor relentless pushed him harder.

At last Faramir felt his breath coming with difficulty, and he grew slow with the pain. He had no other choice. His father had left him no other choice, just as he had intended. Faramir pulled a sword from the rack and deflected Denethor's sword before it could reach him. Denethor smirked and redoubled the effort of his attacks. With each forced blow, Faramir grew weaker, but Denethor seemed only to grow stronger, invigorated by the tears that began to spill from Faramir's eyes.

"Please, Father," said Faramir, kneeling on the ground as he managed to parry anther attack. "Please…I cannot do this… I-I am not strong enough. I cannot fight. I surrender…"

"No!" snarled Denethor furiously. "No, Faramir! You are missing the point of your punishment! You cannot surrender! You will _never _surrender!" Denethor slid his sword down Faramir's, and though the two blades caught at the crossguard, it allowed Denethor to force more brute strength into his attack. Unable to fight off the intensity of his father's onslaught, Faramir released his blade and gasped in pain as he stared at his fingers. The coiled wire of the hilt had cut into his flesh, and blood dripped from the small wounds.

"Pick up your sword!" shouted Denethor. "Pick it up! Fight!"

Faramir threw up his arms as defense when his father raised his sword again. "I can't…" he whispered in pain.

"Do as I say!"

Anger flashed through Faramir's eyes. "Don't tell me what to do."

"I am your father, and you will bow before my every command," said Denethor coldly.

Faramir seized his sword, his muscles taut from stress. "I will not."

"You have no choice. My will is incontestable. Do as I say."

"I have a will of my own!" shouted Faramir. "I will not let you treat me like an animal!"

The hatred in Denethor's eyes grew. "I treat you as what you are. If I treat you like an animal, it is because your uses are no better than an animal's."

"That's not true!" Faramir threw himself into the fight, clashing swords with his father. He could see the loathing behind Denethor's eyes, and it filled him with pain and hurt. Denethor considered him lower than the dust of his feet, lower than dirt. He was worthless in his father's eyes, and he was tired of being worthless. He would not be worthless any longer. Slowly he began to beat his father back, pressuring him into using more elaborate moves, tiring him, using his age as an advantage against him.

"Oh, it is true," said Denethor, his voice dangerously quiet. "What do you have to prove to me, Faramir? How can you show me that you have worth?"

"I will do whatever I must," said Faramir through clenched teeth, matching his strength against his father's as each tried to knock the other off balance.

Denethor spun out of the lock and brought an elbow around to connect with his son's face. The blow split Faramir's lip, and in a daze he dropped his guard. Denethor lifted the pommel of his sword and struck Faramir's head sharply. Faramir fell to the ground, and he wheezed painfully as his breath was knocked out of him. The coppery taste of blood stung his lips, and his head was ringing with agony. With every muscle in his body, he tried to push himself up, but he was in such pain…

"Get up."

Faramir gasped, feeling the strain on his body beginning to take its toll. The anger and frustration that had fueled him vanished the instant he hit the ground. Who was he trying to fool? He had nothing to prove, nothing to gain by winning. His father would never believe him to be of worth. He would always be the second born, second best.

"I said, get up."

"I-I can't…"

The whistle of a blade slicing through the air gave him just enough warning to roll rapidly to the side to dodge his father's sword. Bruises screamed at him, purpling after the abuse they had suffered. Panting, Faramir finally managed to pull himself to his feet and swing his sword up in time to block Denethor's blow, but he gritted his teeth in pain as his arm began shaking from the pressure.

Denethor's eyes narrowed on his. "Fight back," he snarled ruthlessly. "Defend yourself, prove to me that you did not kill Aerandir."

Faramir grasped the hilt of his blade with both hands and strove to shove his father's sword back, but with a quick move Denethor dislodged the blade from his hands and tripped him. Faramir crashed to the ground again, and he felt his bruised body grow weaker.

"But you cannot prove that to me, can you, Faramir?"

Faramir slowly pushed himself up from the ground and retrieved his sword. His footwork was clumsy and sluggish compared with his father's finesse and precision. Denethor clashed blades with Faramir again and once more proved to be stronger, hurling Faramir back against the wall of the training court. Faramir's chest heaved for air, and he desperately wiped the sweat out of his eyes as Denethor charged at him.

"Fight back!" bellowed Denethor, swinging his blade towards his son. This time, Faramir could not parry fast enough. The tip of his father's blade slid under Faramir's chin, resting with deadly chill against his throat. Denethor's cold gaze seemed to bore through his very flesh.

"You cannot prove it to me, because you know that you did kill Aerandir. You a son of lords, Faramir. It is time you begin to take responsibility for your actions." Denethor pressed the sword harder against his son's neck, and Faramir shivered. "If there is one thing I have taught you, it is that you must never run away from your fears. Confront your fears, Faramir. Confront the truth. You killed Aerandir, and you will suffer for it. You shamed me before all of Gondor. This is my vengeance upon you. Mark it well. Next time I will not be so forgiving. Next time, Faramir, you will fight back, or you will die. So you tell me, Faramir. Will there be a next time?"

"No, sir."

-----------

* * *

_Narwain_

(January)

_Ai_

(Alas)


	15. Not Forgotten

Chapter XV – Not Forgotten

I wake up with a jolt and fumble for the small book which always lies beneath my pillow while I sleep. Groping in the dark, I cannot find it, and a moment of panic clutches my heart before I remember that I gave the memoir to Nimhiril.

My sister's face still haunts me even now, the pain and the guilt. She was here while I was away in Nurn, caring for our father as he grew old and dotard. She saw what it was that slowly ate away at him, draining him of the vitality and health that filled him for so long. She knew that it was my fault that our father fell into decay.

Had I apologized and made peace with him before I left for Mordor, would things be different now? Would Faramir still live, the healthy Steward of Gondor? Would Barahir have remained here, safe? Would the shadow that lingers in Elessar's eyes have never come? Would my heart be satisfied?

As I lie in bed, awaiting the rise of the new day, I remember the very last entry I read before handing the book over to Nimhiril. It was one of several that Faramir wrote concerning the death of his Ranger companion, Aerandir. A close friend of mine in the service had an uncle by the name of Aerandir. I cannot help but wonder now if it was the same man that my father watched die within Henneth Annûn. I may never know, as my friend now lies buried beneath the ashen clouds of Mordor.

Faramir's guilt is so potent even in reading a retelling of the story that while my eyes passed swiftly over the words I felt my heart ache with my father's pain. I have been accustomed to warfare since before I can easily remember, yet I recall my first battle clearly. It was not a difficult victory, and though our side suffered casualties, my friends and I emerged unscathed. My Uncle Boromir's opinion of battle closely mimics my own: you fight because you must, and you fight because it is the right thing to do. It is strange to read about him in my father's recollections, as he died long before I was born.

I, much like my uncle, love battle. Faramir hated it, and the further I read into this memoir the more I come to understand…that he hated _himself_. Everything that my grandfather said to him was a biting reprimand or a cool dismissal, as if Faramir was not worth the effort. Through his words I can see how it wore him down, pushing him beyond his limitations. Denethor expected too much of him, just as I have expected too much of my son.

I wonder now if Faramir ever truly forgave himself for Aerandir's death. Everyone knows that when he was older, Faramir became the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers. History proves that he became the very thing that he swears in his memoir never to become. He became a soldier. He fought not only orcs, but men: Haradrim and Easterlings. With each kill, did he see a reflection of Aerandir? Did he wonder whose child he had slain? Did he feel the weight of the responsibility, the utter, crushing knowledge that he lived while his friend died?

I wonder if he ever found forgiveness with Aerandir's family. I wonder if he could have found it in his heart to forgive me for what I have done. Had he lived…what would have happened? Would I go on hating him? Would I insist upon sending my only son to the battlefront? Or would we have finally found some peace with each other and with ourselves?

I rise from bed and splash cold water on my face. The sun is beginning to rise in my window now, and somewhere below in the city a cock crows. My servants soon enter to bathe me and dress me, and I allow my mind to wander as they tend to their duties. The worst emotion for a soldier to allow himself to experience is self-pity, yet now it overwhelms me. I hate what I did to him. I hate how I behave. More than anything else, I hate being the Steward of Gondor. Already the stress has been enough to bring on bouts of headaches and illness, and I have not yet even attended my first official Council as the King's Steward. How did he manage it, my father? How did he live with this monotony, this dull drone of life? Did he not long for adventure or excitement? For fresh air and swift horses and freedom? I am caged here, like a bird with clipped wings. I am caged.

"My Lord Elboron," says one of the servants suddenly, bobbing his head respectfully. "Which would you prefer to wear to the King's Council?" Two other servants hold up long velvet tunics, one blue and one black, both extremely stuffy and equally ugly. I choose the black one, as much for the reason that it seems to match my spirits as that it has a slightly less repulsive collar. Besides this, I am still obliged to wear mourning for my father's death. It seems a century has passed since the funeral, but it has truly been only a few short weeks, perhaps a month.

"Pardon my intrusion, Prince." I look to see that one of the Steward's officers slipped in while the servants were grooming me. "I have taken the liberty of drawing up your schedule for the day, my Lord, taking into consideration the weeks you have been absent from Minas Tirith…" I take one glance at the schedule that the officer offers to me on a piece of parchment, and I nearly cry out in surprise. How can they find so much for one simple man to do in twenty-four hours?

"As you see, the Ministers of Internal Affairs wish to speak with you as soon as you are available, my Lord. Also, it is written here that you have five appointments in the early afternoon, but I added another to accommodate the work you have to catch up on… The guild leaders of Minas Tirith would enjoy your company for tea, and I have scheduled you for an early dinner with the envoy from Harad. They have desired to meet you since your father's passing… Oh, I have forgotten to mention here the entreaty of the clock workers for your attention for some trivial matter concerning yearly time conservations. Too few days in a year, I suppose. Well, they wished to speak with the King, but I could not trouble His Majesty for such an affair… Furthermore, your meeting with the Captains of the Tower has been moved to an hour prior to noon. Some scheduling confusion or whatnot. I am afraid, therefore, that the petition of the schoolmasters will need to be cut short. The Council Meeting, of course, is scheduled first thing, and Their Majesties have requested a private breakfast with you afterwards. That is all I must address, I believe, and the rest is clear on your schedule. Good day to you, my Lord."

The officer bows and vanishes, leaving the piece of parchment in my hands. Sweet Eru, save me! And Laurelindë wants more children?

"If you don't mind my saying so, m'Lord," one of the servants murmurs. "The cooks have also been meaning to have an audience with your Lordship. Jus' thought I'd mention it…"

I would like to tell that servant that I will be lucky if I can get everything on this schedule finished before nightfall, but I hold my tongue and struggle not to think about the trying day ahead. So, this is what it means to be the Steward…

The first task upon my schedule is the most trying of all: the Council of Gondor. Once my servants are satisfied with my appearance, I weave my way down winding staircases and emerge at last before the Council Chambers. The doors are thrown wide, but the other lords have not yet arrived. The King is sitting by himself at the head of the table, and he beckons me to him silently.

"Good morn, my liege," I say, bowing politely. Elessar smiles.

"Good morn, Elboron. Early again, I see. Perhaps you are more like your father than you believe."

"I doubt it, Sire."

"Here." The King gestures to the seat on his right hand, and slowly I approach the chair. "This was your father's place upon my Council, and now it is yours." I can see the reluctance behind his eyes, the pain of letting go of Faramir. I sit in my place and try to imagine myself as my father, always so sure of himself, of what to do. The exact opposite of myself.

"How are you?" asks the King gently.

"I was fine until I saw my schedule for the day," I grumble.

Elessar smiles again. "I am sorry to hear that, but that is not what I meant. You insist that you are prepared to take up your duties, yet still you are sad of eye and quiet of heart. It is not my wish for you to rush anything, Elboron."

"I am fine," I say, irritated somewhat by the fatherly tone in Elessar's voice. "I am ready for this. It cannot wait any longer."

"Have you made peace with your father's death, then?"

I hesitate to answer, but I know that Elessar's eyes are fixed on me. "Yes," I lie swiftly.

The King sighs. "I wish that I could say the same," he says quietly. "When he grew so weak that he could not get out of bed in the morning without help… I offered to help ease his pain, but he would not have it. You get some of your stubbornness from him, you know." Elessar laughed, but his eyes soon grew grave again. "I knew that his time had come, but it has not made his passing any easier for me to accept."

"Nothing ever can."

"Indeed." Elessar pauses, then moves on quickly to lighter subjects. "I hope you will not hesitate to ask questions if you are unsure of anything," he says. "I know that this is your first Council, and I believe you only came to one with your father once when you were a child."

I smile. "Very boring, as I recall."

"It is no less boring now," the King assures me dryly. "But it is necessary nonetheless. I have confidence that you will not struggle to catch on. You have your mother's fire and your father's persistence."

Both now gone. My mother died when I was only a boy, long before her time. It was an unfair and cruel end to so warm and caring a mother. I loved her dearly. I was always told that my mother's heritage was evident in me, not only in my blonde hair and blue eyes but in my temper, my thirst for adventure, and my love of riding horses. My cousin Elfwine is King of Rohan, the son of my mother's brother and my father's cousin. He says that I would make a fine Rohirric warrior, if I ever fancied to become a Rider of the Mark. Now, of course, it is too late. My age will soon begin to catch up with me.

The lords begin to arrive quickly, and I try to remember who each of them is as Elessar introduces them.

Lord Boromir is the brother of the Prince of Dol Amroth, acting as his substitute while he is away in Harad. My Cousin Elphir, now also passed, named his younger son for my uncle, whom it is said he fought beside during the War of the Ring.

Lord Damrod is the chief of Morthond, now in his dotage and beginning to lose his eyesight and his wits. He is the son of the late Lord Duinhir, the man who beat my father in his childhood as I read in the memoir. He is a scoundrel of a lord, malevolent in character but subtle and crafty. One can read it in his eyes.

Lord Forlong II still rules over Lossarnach, but he, too, is beginning to feel the tightening of age. He is without wife or heirs, and much dispute has raged over the inheritance of his lordship when he finally passes.

Suddenly I realize why the King has twelve children. If anything should happen to him or the Queen, Eru forbid it, there must be an heir to the throne. True, Eldarion is the King's only son, but it is said that queens once reigned in ancient Númenor, and so why should they not in Gondor and Arnor? With eleven daughters, along with their many sons including my son Barahir, the throne of Gondor will never be left heirless. Eldarion has spoken to me often of the pressure he feels of trying to find a bride, though he does not wish for an arranged marriage full of meaningless promises and bonds. Arranged marriages are not always so emotionless, I tell him. My marriage to Laurelindë began as an arranged marriage and grew into so much more.

"The Council of Gondor is now in session," says Elessar calmly. "With us today for the first time is the Lord Steward Elboron. I ask you to welcome him warmly into our Council after so long away on matters of war. Moving on to business, we have several topics for discussion today…" Elessar mentions each of the affairs to be addressed, most of them boring and full of details that I know I shan't remember.

One matter, however, is concerned most closely with myself. The meeting begins with a debate over the establishment of a Steward of Arnor independent from the Steward of Gondor. It is an affair which is directly related to myself and my lordship, but I say little in the heated argument that ensues. The King adamantly refuses such a defiance of tradition, but the other lords insist it is for the best.

"My liege, who will rule in your absence when you are either here or in Arnor if there is but one Steward?" says Lord Damrod in a hoarse, whiny voice.

"A well-spoken point," said Lord Forlong, plucking at his white beard.

"I will not allow it," says Elessar sternly. "Who would you choose as the second Steward? Lord Elboron's son is not yet grown to manhood!"

"Then choose one from another line, Sire," says Damrod.

"Never," says Elessar, taken aback. "I promised Faramir that the line of the Stewards would remain with his children and his children's children for as long as the generations continue. I will not revoke my word."

"Perhaps if Lord Elboron were willing to permit such an appointment, it would not go ill with your promise," suggested Damrod slyly.

All eyes turn to me, and I struggle with my first real test as Steward. On one hand, I would support my King's decision and agree with him, but on the other I would not have the lords grow spiteful towards me so soon after my succession as Steward.

Something my father once said returns to me now, a memory that I was not even aware I possessed. 'Elboron,' he had said, 'when you come of age to inherit the Stewardship of Gondor, you will be asked to make decisions that do not always have a clear answer. There is no way to know what you are doing at all times. In moments like those, it is more important than anything in the world that you follow your instinct and do what you judge to be right. Regardless of what others say, this is what you must do. That is the legacy of the Stewards, to bear the protection and the safekeeping of Gondor and her people. Remember this, Elboron, above all that I have taught you.'

What do I judge to be right? And how can I be sure that my judgment is true? How could my father have entrusted this task to me? Was he so confident that I would know the right thing to do when the time came? Do I, after all, understand the difference between right and wrong? Is there right and wrong, or merely one side and the other?

Suddenly I feel a…a movement within me. A whisper of a thing. A ghost of the past. In the blink of an eye, it vanishes again, but in that flicker of a second, I understood what the right decision was.

"The King's promise cannot be broken," I say quietly, uncertainly. "Yet the people of Arnor deserve the security of a ruling presence. I suggest not that a second Steward be appointed, but that a governor be placed in each province of Arnor, to provide stability and consistency of rulings within each province in the King's absence. Thereby the inhabitants of Arnor will receive noticeable direction and His Majesty's promise shall be honored still."

The silence of shock muffles the room for a moment, and then the King smiles.

"A wise judgment," he says softly. "You have spoken as Faramir would have done. Does anyone find Lord Elboron's ruling to be unjust? No one? Then I proclaim the judgment law, and tomorrow this Council will elect the officials who will rule the provinces of Arnor in my stead." He leans closer to me and whispers, "Faramir's spirit has not left us yet. He is not forgotten." It is so quiet that I almost do not believe what I hear, and the next moment Elessar has straightened in his seat once more and is addressing the Council again. "Moving directly on to other affairs, the mines of Khand require attention…"

For a brief moment, the shadowy flicker of life stirs within me again and fades away once more. It is like the gentle caress of a hand upon a shoulder, a hand I have known well, yet cannot rightly place in my mind.

My father's spirit has not left me yet.

I have not forgotten him.


	16. Forgiveness

Chapter XVI – Forgiveness

_**18 Narwain, T.A. 3001**_

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"Faramir?"

Faramir looked up from his desk, his eyes dull and lightless with exhaustion. His left arm was in a sling, and his entire body seemed to wilt from weariness. It took him a moment to realize that the man standing in his doorway was Captain Seregorn.

"Faramir…" The Captain stepped forward haltingly, his eyes flickering over Faramir's bandaged left arm. "Who did this to you?"

"It is my punishment," said Faramir softly. He could not bear to meet the Captain's eyes, dreading to find the same look of hatred that had marked the eyes of his father. "It is what I must endure to be reminded of what I have done. To ensure that I will always remember what I have done…"

"Faramir, do you mean to tell me that your father did this?"

"I wish you would not say it like that," said Faramir, disconcerted by the Captain's words. "'_Did this_.' My father did exactly what I knew he would." He still averted his eyes from Captain Seregorn's face. "In a way…it was what I wanted him to do. He punished me. He isn't abusive, Captain, if that is what you are thinking. My father has never been an abusive man. He punishes me justly, when he believes I have deserved it. And…he felt that I should be reminded of my duty to Gondor. Of my duty to fight. I had no choice but to fight back, and I lost."

"He forced you to fight?"

"To make sure I would never make the same fatal mistake again," said Faramir wearily. "He is ashamed of me, for what I have done…" Faramir felt a knot of anger and hurt ball up in his stomach, anger at his father for forcing him to fight and hurt for his father's sharp words.

"_If I treat you like an animal, it is because your uses are no better than an animal's."_

"You did not kill Aerandir," said Captain Seregorn. "It was not right of the Lord Denethor to say so."

"Why are you here?"

The Captain paused. "Your father sent me. He wishes you to accompany me into the lower city."

"Why?"

"He says you are to be with me when I tell Aerandir's parents."

Faramir turned pale, and it took every ounce of strength he had to keep tears of panic from welling in his eyes. Slowly, painfully, he rose from his seat.

"As the Lord Denethor commands," said Faramir quietly, his head bowed in shame. This was also his punishment. Denethor knew exactly how to hit Faramir where it hurt the most. The physical trial was only the beginning.

The Captain was silent as they walked the crowded streets of Minas Tirith. It was midday now. Faramir felt the weight of the Captain's presence, the heavy sorrow and the grief. Most of all, he could feel his disappointment, and the crushing sense of failure returned to Faramir for the hundredth time.

"You will remain silent," said the Captain at last, barely glancing at Faramir. "You will not address them, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"You will not weep, either. Allow them the dignity of their grief for their son, but remain strong."

"Yes, sir."

"Faramir…" Captain Seregorn stopped suddenly and looked down at his former Ranger. "This is as difficult for me as it is for you. Do not forget that."

"Yes, sir."

The house was small but pleasant. A grey cat preened itself on the front steps. A line of laundry hung from the windows. Captain Seregorn stepped over the cat and knocked thrice on the door. Faramir watched him falter, then regain his composure a moment before the door was answered by a proud, middle-aged man with greying hair but strong brown eyes. He bowed half-way when he saw Faramir, but the look in his eyes was clearly wary when they fell upon the Captain.

"Can I help you, sirs?" the man asked tensely. "Please, won't you come in?"

Faramir and Captain Seregorn crossed the threshold into a small room with a tub of soapy water in one corner and a hearth in the other. A small boy was playing with a wooden mûmak on the frayed rug, and a tired-looking woman stood over the hearth. The man exchanged brief words with the woman and then told the boy to go into the next room, and the two of them turned to face Faramir and the Captain.

"Sir, madam," said Captain Seregorn respectfully. Faramir could feel the pain behind every word, because it was echoed in his own quick breath. "I am Captain Seregorn of the Ithilien Rangers." The man and woman drew closer together, as if by instinct. "It is my most unfortunate duty to inform you that your son Aerandir was slain…" The woman sobbed loudly and buried her face in her husband's shirt. The man held her tightly, in too much shock to weep. "…while defending our outpost from an orc horde. If it is any comfort to you…I would say that he died bravely, and Gondor is forever indebted to him for his service to his country."

Faramir felt tears choking in his throat, and though he remembered Captain Seregorn's orders, he could not follow them. He watched Aerandir's parents grieve, and it struck him as hard as any physical blow of his father's sword. With his unwounded arm, Faramir unclipped Aerandir's sword from his belt and kneeled before the mother and father in grief.

"I have kept it safe," said Faramir softly, lifting the Rohirric sword in its bloodstained sheath. He could sense Captain Seregorn's displeasure, but he ignored it. "Now I return it to you."

The man reached out towards the sword, the over-bright gleam of unshed tears lingering in his eyes. He paused with his fingers inches from the scabbard and looked at Faramir while struggling with his tears. With one hand he steadied his wife.

"Were you…a friend of my son, Lord Faramir?" he asked, his proud features crumbling into grief.

Breathlessly, Faramir swallowed his own tears and nodded. "Yes, sir. I would have died in his place, could I have done." He looked away suddenly in shame. " I am sorry, I have spoken too rashly. Please, forgive me…"

The wife tore away from the man suddenly and dashed into the next room where her little son remained, as if to be sure that he, at least, was still safely with her. The man faltered without her next to him, as if by comforting her he had been able to assuage some of his own agony.

"The fault is not yours," said the man sadly, a sob working its way through him at last. "I-I would have you remember my son w-with happiness…not in grief." He pushed the sword gently back into Faramir's hand. "Please…keep the blade…as a token of my gratitude. You…you would have given everything for my son…and I hope the Lord Faramir will accept the humble offer of friendship we have to give."

"Please," said Faramir, dying with each word that left the man's lips. "I ask only for your forgiveness…"

"Why do you ask for this?"

"Because I…" Faramir paused in agony. "Because I could not save your son…"

The man shuddered as another unheard sob passed through him. "Then if it is forgiveness you seek, forgiveness you shall have. I bear no grudge against you, my Lord Faramir. I would not have you carry the burden of guilt for this…for…this tragedy…" The sound of crying came suddenly from the next room, and the man seemed to shrink inwardly as the noise brought more tears to his eyes. "Please…excuse me…"

Captain Seregorn and Faramir showed themselves to the door, and outside the Captain stood silently for a long moment. Tears streamed down Faramir's face, and he shook from repressed sobs, forgetting that he was seventeen years old, a man, and should not be crying. He knew that the Captain was angry with him, and he waited expectantly for the admonishment he was sure to receive.

The Captain clapped Faramir's shoulder. "Well done, Faramir," he whispered gruffly. "Well done."

"I-I did not do as you ordered, sir," stuttered Faramir in surprise.

"No, lad, but I'm glad you did not."

Faramir looked down at the sword in his and clutched it so tightly that his knuckles almost turned white from the strain. "Why…why?" he asked.

"Why am I glad?"

"No… Why would he forgive me?"

Captain Seregorn sighed. "He recognized the sincerity and the sorrow in your words, Faramir. Aerandir's father has forgiven you, so that he may move on without burdening himself with useless blame. No matter whose fault it is that Aerandir died, he is gone forever. The only thing we can do is move on. It's time for you to move on, too, Faramir."

Faramir felt his injured hand curl into a fist in its sling, causing a twinge of pain along his arm. "My father will never forgive me…"

"It is not up to your father to forgive you. It is up to you to forgive yourself."

"How can I?" Faramir's fist fell limp. "Innocent people are weeping inside that house, and it's my fault."

"Fault did not matter to Aerandir's father, and so it should not matter to you," said the Captain sternly.

"Will you take me back?"

Stunned, Captain Seregorn stared blankly at Faramir, answerless. "Faramir," he said softly. "Why such a change in heart?"

Faramir leveled his gaze straight at the Captain's for the first time. "It is an insult to Aerandir if I abandon the Rangers," he said. "He died defending Gondor… It is only fitting that I commit myself to that same level of devotion. I wish to be a Ranger again, Captain. I wish to fight and die for my country, just like Aerandir."

Captain Seregorn eyed Faramir, unsettled by the young man's words. "This has nothing to do with your father?" he asked suspiciously.

Faramir laughed weakly but gave no reply.

"Very well," said the Captain, smiling. "Welcome back, Faramir. It will be good to have you standing beside us again. We'll need you in Ithilien, now more than ever." Captain Seregorn paused. "I never meant to tell you this when you were so young, Faramir, but I want you to know now. If I die, I want you to succeed me as Captain of the Ithilien Rangers."

Faramir looked up at the Captain in shock. "Me?" he repeated in a hoarse voice. "Why not Mablung?"

The Captain shook his head. "Mablung is skilled, but he's more suited to the role of lieutenant. You'll also want to keep him out of the fighting for the most part, since he's the best healer we have."

"Why not Damrod? Or Anborn? They're all older and more experienced than I…"

"They aren't much older than yourself," said Captain Seregorn, "and they lack the charisma that you have, Faramir. You have a lot of potential for a man of your age, and I know in my heart that one day you will bring honor to your name, and your father will recognize it."

Faramir looked down. "I thought so once, a long time ago. I'm seventeen, Captain. I don't really believe in fantasy stories anymore."

Captain Seregorn gave him a wry smile. "Ah, that's the problem with you young men. You always think you know everything."

Without waiting for Faramir to respond, the Captain nodded a farewell and disappeared around a corner and down an alleyway. Faramir was left standing in front of the stoop of the low house where Aerandir's parents lived, and he watched the grey cat continue preening itself as if nothing had happened.

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**_I wonder if my father knew that sending me to accompany Captain Seregorn would cause me to rejoin the Ithilien Rangers. Is his control over me so complete that he can manipulate me so easily, like a puppet on strings? Is he so clever that he can devise such schemes without my knowing? Does he care enough about me to go through such trouble? No, he cares not for me. If it is true that he foresaw today's events, it was for his own profit, the upkeep of his own image, and not for my benefit._**

**_I do not care whether or not it is my father's will that I rejoin the Rangers. It is _my _will, _my_ decision, my own guilt which moves me. He has had his share in punishing me. Now I feel that it was not enough. What good are physical bruises that will fade with time? What use could his 'lesson' have possibly served me? None. It is not enough that I suffer a temporary hurt. What I want, what I need, is to feel so selfless and so disconnected from myself that I can no longer heed myself before others._**

_**I swore never to kill a living thing again for as long as I live. Now I resign myself to break that vow. For Aerandir, I will put Gondor before myself. It is the only way, I know, to forgive myself and to ensure that this tragedy is not repeated.**_

_**Gandalf spoke to me of crafting the man I am to become, of following my dream to become a scholar. I realize now that, as much as I desire this dream, it is a fantasy that cannot happen. I will not allow it to happen. To put my own desires before the needs of my country would be an unforgivable act of selfishness that would put Aerandir's memory and his family to shame.**_

_**So I surrender myself to my father's will. If he would have me be a soldier, then so be it.**_

**_I am Faramir, soldier of Gondor._**

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_Narwain_

(January)


	17. Whispers to the Wind

Chapter XVII – Whispers to the Wind

"_Sir! We need orders!"_

"_Take the western ridge from this direction," Elboron was telling his lieutenant, indicating the movement on the map that was spread haphazardly across an upturned crate in front of him. "You may _not_ retreat. You _must _take the ridge at all costs. Am I understood?"_

"_Sir! Orders!" shouted the hysterical voice above him._

_The lieutenant nodded, clenching the hilt of his sword. "Understood, sir," he said and sprinted along the narrow trench floor in a half-crouch to reach his men on the other side of the battlefield._

_Elboron wiped sweat and grime from his brow, barely flinching at the clamor of the battle and the sound of whizzing arrows and screams from overhead. At last, he turned to face the frantic officer who had retreated to the brink of the trench and was staring down at Elboron in panic._

"_Push forward!" roared Elboron, in no mood for skittish officers. "Drive toward the ridge! Lieutenant Carthôl will be pushing towards us from—!"_

_An arrow pierced the officer's chest, and he fell into the trench with a groan, lifeless. Elboron cursed and climbed out of the swampy, mud-choked hole and into the front line. A ragged line of soldiers was pushing haltingly forward, urged on by an officer who was shouting himself hoarse. A tide of Variags threatened to overwhelm their position. If Carthôl could not take that ridge…_

"_Borodin!" shouted Elboron over the clanging, screaming, hissing cacophony of battle, coming up behind the officer. The man turned towards him, and Elboron stopped short when he saw the chalk-white face of his friend. Borodin's breath was coming in quick, pained gasps, and his eyes were shot through with pain._

"_You're wounded!" cried Elboron in alarm as his friend collapsed against him. Blood was streaming from a wide opening in Borodin's side, too much blood. Elboron guided him to the ground behind an overturned horse cart and pressed down hard on the wound, but it bled through his fingers._

"_Elboron…the line! The line, it's breaking!" Borodin choked out. "Hold them! You have to hold them! G-Go! Leave me here, and just go!"_

"_Boro—"_

"_For Eru's sake, go!"_

_Elboron left Borodin with his canteen of water and hastened to the front line, where the soldiers were wavering and pushing onward haltingly against the Variag onslaught. Elboron's sword sliced through the belly of one enemy, and he knocked the teeth out of another with the pommel._

"_Toward the ridge!" Elboron cried, wiping blood from his eyes. "Toward the ridge! Onward, as Gondor's sons! Toward the ridge!" With a cry of defiance, Elboron charged across the empty ground that stretched between them and the next wave of Variag warriors. Blood and sweat and mud and tears blinded him, and he fell into the fight with grim fear in his heart, knowing that behind him Borodin lay dying… _

I gasp as I wake with a start, sitting upright in my bed. I pass a shaking hand over my brow and struggle to regain my breath. In front of my eyes, visions are still flickering like ghostly memories, old horrors I thought I had forgotten.

I have never before dreamt of war in such a nightmarish way—the heat of battle, the blood, the deafening roar, the pain… For these past fifty years I have scarcely thought of Borodin, my old friend, who succumbed to his wounds that day beneath the dusky clouds of Khand.

Borodin…

We were scarcely more than schoolboys then. I had just passed my eighteenth year; Borodin, his nineteenth. We had thought war to be a wondrous thing, before we were sent to the front, I as a captain and he as my ancient. The campaign in Khand was one of many that would erupt over the course of the next half-century, in what has become known as the Great Eastern War. Borodin died only four months into his service in the army. I still live on, now in my eighty-first year, old enough to watch my fifteen-year-old son march on the battlefields of Nurn in Mordor.

Great Eru, have I condemned my son to death, to misery and abjection? My heart is besieged by the disquieting news written of my son in Eldarion's letters, of the homesickness that renders my Barahir seclusive and wretched. It is my guilt in this matter that now forces me to relive before my mind's eye these horrific memories of the battlefields of my youth. I cannot close my eyes without picturing the pale face of my son amidst the bleak, war-scarred desolation that is Mordor. How could I have sent him hence, to a dark hell that turns even the most optimistic of souls to sorrow and despair? How could I have sent him hence, a mere boy of fifteen, to combat the very evils which plague my nightmares still?

My conscience holds me prisoner within my mind. I will find no rest tonight.

I rise, wrapping my robe about me as I step out onto the balcony. A warm, sleepy spring breeze envelops me, fogging my mind with weariness. Slowly I breathe in and out, my eyes flickering closed. The sun's shimmering rays have not yet risen over the horizon, and the Pelennor Fields spread beneath me are wreathed in shadow and mist. It is easy in the darkness before dawn to imagine a time when the Pelennor were besieged by tens of thousands of orcs and cruel beasts under the shroud of eternal midnight, the air thrumming with the wingbeats of the fell steeds of the Nazgûl. It was a battle fought many long years before my birth, the battle in which both my father and my mother were wounded nigh unto death and so met one another in the Houses of Healing. Yet though the siege of Minas Tirith has long since passed into history, I remember even from my years as a child and an adolescent the terrible scars rent over the earth between the Anduin and the White City, like great welts across the face of the land.

Now, decades later, verdant grass grows yet again over the Pelennor, and the old scars of battle have been forgotten by many who dwell within the walls of Minas Tirith. There are few now who remain who may recall the great battles of the War of the Ring. My father was one of the few remaining captains of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, and now he, too, has passed into the realm beyond the living. The unsung heroes of the War of the Ring are one by one disappearing from Middle-Earth, along with an entire generation that lived under that great Shadow which now lies in ruinous extinction in the desolate, decaying wasteland that is all that remains of Mordor.

War now is different, fought for purposes which even the generals poorly understand. From time to time, grieving citizens who have been bereaved by combat of a son, father, brother, or nephew approach the King with petitions to end the Great Eastern War which began in the avaricious pursuit of the precious mithril mines of Khand. Every man in Gondor, even the King, is aware that this was the purpose that guided the Council's decision to go to war. Nevertheless, it is beyond the King's authority to withdraw the troops from the distant battlefields. Now that the war has spilled into Nurn, one of the regions of Mordor which were surrendered to Sauron's repentant servants, the armies of Gondor have no choice but to remain until the inhabitants of Nurn, our allies, correct their mistakes and end the civil war which now ravages their land. There is no foreseeable end to this conflict. My father's generation could not end it, and neither could my own generation. I pray to the Valar that my son's generation, yet young, will learn to overcome the burden of war and end the strife that was so futilely begun over six decades ago.

Upon the thought of my son, my gnawing guilt returns to me tenfold, seeping into my very bones. It seems that my mind will not be distracted away from that anxiety which is foremost in my thoughts.

I never intended to make Barahir suffer. Indeed, I thought I was doing what was best for him. Children need structure and discipline in their lives, and the army is the best method of attaining such qualities. I expected Barahir to adapt well to life as a soldier. The age of nine was, perhaps, younger than the norm for entry into the Tower Guard, but as the son of a general it seemed only fitting.

Oh, how he has changed in the six years that I have been away at the war… I barely recognized him when I saw him upon my return to Minas Tirith, following my father's death. In such a short time, he somehow grew from a tiny boy trotting eagerly after his grandpapa into a man of fifteen, quiet and subdued, duty-bound with honor and near flawless in his swordsmanship. I am so very proud of him, and of everything he has accomplished. I hope that, wherever he is, he knows that.

Fear creeps suddenly into my heart. Did I ever speak those words to my son? _I am proud of you._ Dear Eru, did I even ever say to him, _I love you_? I cannot now recall if the phrase ever left my lips in his presence, though of course it is true! What if, as he sleeps beneath the shaded stars of Mordor, he weeps for not having heard a word of praise from me? Ohhh, how my heart aches with the guilt of this thought! If only, if only there was a way to know for certain, to contact him, to tell him that I love him! In my heart I know that were I to commission a runner to carry a letter for Elboron to the front, my son would cast aside the note even upon seeing my seal.

As my mind throbs with aching remorse, my body grows stiff and sore in protest against my midnight rising. Shifting my gaze from the plains below, I look at my vein-webbed hands, spotted with age. They clench and unclench seemingly of their own volition, itching to wield a sword once more. Alas! How my heart wishes to return to the front, to the men whom I commanded for over six years in Mordor.

Once again I am filled with bitterness for my entrapment here as Steward. How loathe I am to spend the remainder of my days pent up in the city! I am fond of Elessar, and he has been in many ways more like a father to me than my own father, but to feign to be enthusiastic about my new role as his Steward rather than his son-in-law is a daily trial which churns the resentment in my heart. I am a soldier, not a politician!

Faramir was a scholar, not a soldier, yet he sacrificed himself to his country in a selfless act of courage and patriotism which I have never seen matched even in my many years as a general. He hated and feared war, and yet he became the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers and nearly gave his life defending Minas Tirith from assault.

Knowing this, how can I justify my petty bitterness over being given the honorable title of Steward of Gondor? Should I not sacrifice myself as did my father, becoming the man my country needs me to be? There are plenty of generals and strategists in Gondor of late, but few skillful diplomats there are who are capable of providing the political negotiations which are Gondor's only hope of reaching a swift and decisive end to the war.

On the other hand, am I even capable of providing such political leadership? My diplomatic skills are few, if any, for I have always preferred to solve matters by the sword rather than by the quill. I often speak rashly and impulsively. I have no concept of political subtleties; things are better when they are bold and blatant, not concealed and secretive. No wise king would seek my counsel, least of all the King of the united realms of Gondor and Arnor! Why is it, then, that Elessar has allowed my appointment to the post left vacant by my father's death? Was it simply assumed that I would take up Faramir's role in the governing of Gondor, a dictate of tradition taken for granted, or is the King capable of seeing some quality in me to which I am blind?

"_Ada_!" I whisper breathlessly into the wind. "If you can hear me…if you have not left us yet…tell me what to do! I am lost, _ada_! I know that I must do what I judge to be right, but I…" I draw my breath slowly and shakily. "…I am not you. I am your son, but I am not you. Please…tell me what I must do! Give me a sign…a symbol…anything!"

My entreaty echoes into the soft silence before dawn, unheard, unanswered. I begin to weep, surprising even myself with my tears. This pain, this uncertainty, is killing me. I try to summon to my mind an image of my father's face, but the details appear blurred and unfamiliar; the features, inexact. I can no longer recall his noble countenance as I was once able, and the realization makes my heart throb with grief. I miss him. I miss the days of my youth before my mother's death, when he and I would pass the hours playing games of chess or _dagor serni_, and he would laugh when I beat him. I miss the man I looked up to, my idol, the man who was invincible to doubt and fear, who was invincible to everything. I miss the pride I used to feel when I called myself _Elboron, son of Faramir_.

"What happened between us, _ada_?" I ask the wind. "What made us grow so far apart? I could have learned so much from you. There was so much you never told me about yourself. Had I shown myself to be more open, would you have confided in me? Would you have shared with me the history of your past, which now I must piece together from the writings of your youth? Would I have listened, when you advised me?" My voice is choked with my tears. "If I could have anything…I would have your forgiveness, _ada_…" I close my eyes as another warm wisp of air blows across my face. "Please…"

A flicker of warmth, like a tongue of flame, suddenly burns in the heart of my chest. It shivers and wavers, but it does not go out. Slowly, afraid despite myself, I open my eyes. The sun is rising above the horizon now, and molten gold spills across the Pelennor, lighting the glistening Anduin as with fire. Below, a cock crows. Night surrenders her vigil to the renewed watch of Day, and beautiful pinks, oranges, and reds splash across the sky. The wind whistles in the heights above Minas Tirith, and a gentle breeze wafts over me. For the second time, I have the fleeting sensation of a hand upon my shoulder, a hand familiar to me. I turn with a start, but no one is there. The sensation begins to dissipate just as quickly as it came.

"_Ada_…!" I breathe, begging silently for the spirit to stay, but it is already gone. The wind still blows eerily over the forested mountains, as if it, too, mourns the departure of that indiscernible presence—the presence of Faramir, Captain of Gondor.

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_Ada_

(Father)

_dagor serni_

(battle stones)

Author's Note: The Elvish game that I call _dagor serni _here is based on the Chinese game called Go. It is similar to chess in that it is a game of strategy, but at the same time it is nothing like chess because the object is to secure territory, _not_ to capture your opponent's pieces. Sort of a lovely little metaphor for the difference between Eastern and Western philosophy.


	18. The Men of the South

Author's Note: Wow, it's been way too long since I last updated. My writing style has changed so much since I first began this story. For this reason, I am committing myself to revising all seventeen previous chapters, a goal which I shall hopefully achieve sometime in the near future. For more information about my revision project for _Lost Tales of My Father_, please check out my author profile. Also, please read the new-and-improved version of Chapter IV, which has undergone some intense revision.

Thank you all for your incredible loyalty, _mellyn nin_, and I hope you enjoy the plot twist that occurs in this chapter! I've put a lot of hard work into this sucker over the last few weeks. It features a little more political intrigue than the earlier chapters, but…well…I think you'll like it. ;) - Minyasta

* * *

Chapter XVIII – The Men of the South

"The mines of Khand are the private property of the royal family of Gondor, and I'll have it no other way," says King Elessar in a tone that brooks no argument. "The Haradrim are, as always, welcome partners in our endeavors in Khand, but I cannot grant your Amir joint ownership of the mines."

"The War was never Gondor's affair," replies the emissary of Harad sneeringly, his voice thick with a Southern accent. "The mines are the blood right of my people, as a part of the bounty seized from the Variags. My Amir demands that you either offer him joint ownership or pay him a direct semiannual tribute in raw mithril ore."

"Unacceptable," Elessar counters. "Your late Amir demanded no tribute from Gondor! My armies protect the borders of Harad and support her warriors in battle. Does the freshly ordained Amir of Haradwaith expect Gondor, whose steadfast commitment to the War has endured for over half a century, to give aid without receiving payment in kind?"

Heated retorts are exchanged across the table as I write furiously to record it all, listening and trying to comprehend what I know must be a complex diplomatic issue. It has been three weeks since I arrived in Minas Tirith to take up my place as Steward, and with time I've found myself slowly gaining insight into the problems that our nation faces on a daily basis. Finding solutions to those problems, however, is a slow and arduous task, and one that gives me no respite day or night. I was almost relieved when Elessar summoned me early this morning to inform me that there would be a meeting with the emissary of Harad, for which my presence was required. It would at least provide a reprieve from the monotony of my everyday work, and in the times that I have met with the Harad envoy I have found them to be decent, if rather uncivilized, folk.

But my interaction with the diplomats from Harad occurred before the death of the High Amir of Harad, and the succession of the new Amir, who recalled the late Amir's envoy and replaced it with his own. Now together in a room with the new emissary, I cannot shake the feeling of foreboding and distaste that I get when I look upon these men of the South.

At the Council table, usually filled with bickering lords in varying stages of decrepitation, there sit only four individuals: the King, myself, the emissary of Harad, and his aide. The last of these is a man of far fewer years than myself, and his skin is such a dull, swarthy hue that it seems as though he has smeared himself everywhere with wet mud from some dirty riverbed. Cloaked in raiment of fierce golds and crimsons, with a black mane like a lion's and bright, dark eyes like a hawk's, he is a savage and untamed creature. He and I contrast like Night and Day—I the Night, pale-skinned and pale-eyed, dark-robed, sophisticated, refined, subtle, intelligent; and he the Day, brown-skinned and brown-eyed, bright-robed, wild, uncouth, demonstrative, violent.

With difficulty, I force myself to return my attention to my notes and the debate at hand. Still, my thoughts drift towards the two Harad bodyguards who stand at the door opposite their two Gondorian counterparts. Bedecked similarly to the aide, but with the supplement of maille hauberks, gilded shields, and slender, arching scimitars, the swordsmen of Harad are a force to be reckoned with. This I know well, as I have seen them do battle on the front in Mordor. When other men draw back to regroup or strategize, the Haradrim charge full-force into the midst of their enemies. I glance surreptitiously at the bodyguards, and I see in that moment of eye contact that they are staring at me strangely, as though they recognize me. That is unfortunate indeed, for if a soldier of Harad remembers my face, it is probably not for a good reason. Dismayed, I look down once again as the emissary and Elessar continue to speak.

"You dishonor the pact between our two nations to suggest that the terms of the Treaty of Umbar should be re-evaluated for a second time this term," Elessar is saying, growing ever sterner of mood as the conversation deepens. "It was agreed that the Treaty would be reviewed by a council of both countries' representatives once every seven years. Two years ago, that council convened, and the Treaty was reaffirmed in its entirety. Amir Esfandiar is now but a few weeks in his grave, and already you would have talk of appealing the decision made by the well-respected officials of his court?"

"Unfortunately for my people, your Majesty, Amir Esfandiar was unaware of, or chose to ignore, the secret dealings of your Council when Gondor decided to go to war with the Haradrim against the Variags." The look in the emissary's eyes seems almost to challenge Elessar. "You and your Councilors knew of the existence of the mithril mines in Khand, but no mention of them was ever made to Amir Esfandiar or his emissaries—not until after they had been seized and secured by Gondorian troops. Since then, through military occupation, Gondor has expanded her territory well beyond her borders, and even now she extends her grasping hand into regions where once she held no claim. One might well wonder if Gondor's motives in going to war were not as pure as she would have her allies and enemies believe."

Elessar and I exchange a fleeting glance, and in it I sense his desire for me to remain silent. I can feel my pulse begin to quicken as silence falls over the table for a long moment. How did the Haradrim discover the truth about the mines? No one except the lords of Gondor who were present at that Council should be able to tell the full truth, and many of them are now dead or else soon to be. Could one of our own have betrayed us, or did perhaps a chieftain of the Variags make the discovery and sell it to the Haradrim?

"I do not declare war lightly, and I certainly did not do so sixty-five years ago when I declared war on the Variags," says Elessar tightly. "Gondor will be treated as an ally of the Haradrim, not as a tool to be taken advantage of by your Amir. Surely, Ambassador, you understand that compensation is owed Gondor for the deaths of her sons in combat alongside the Haradrim."

"I do understand, your Majesty," says the emissary. "From my Amir's perspective, it is compensation enough that Gondor has a friend rather than an enemy in Harad. It would be unfortunate if High Amir Arsalan of Haradwaith were forced to withdraw his oath of loyalty to your Majesty."

Elessar rises from the table, his face white with fury. "Are you threatening me, Ambassador?"

"I am merely making you aware of the potential consequences of your refusal to submit to my Amir's demands," the emissary replies haughtily.

Unable to contain myself any longer, I say, "If your Amir believes that his armies have the manpower and discipline to confront the military strength of Gondor and Arnor, then he is a fool."

Sternly, the King orders in Sindarin, "Elboron, _ú-pedo_!"

Incensed by my words, the emissary rises from his own seat. "It has been done before, during the Dark Lord's War. What makes you so confident, _Steward_, that it cannot be done again?"

"So you would return your people to the days of darkness under Sauron's rule?" I snap back. "How like the Haradrim, to put on an act of being cultured and civilized men, only to revert back to heathen savagery when put to the test!"

"Elboron!"

The King's booming voice rings threateningly around the chamber. My body is tense, and my eyes flicker back and forth between those of the emissary and those of his aide. In each gaze is a look of total hatred and loathing, a look that fills my soul to the brim with disdain. How dare these primitives come into our city and treat us as folk to be manipulated? It would have been better for all if their vulgar race, and all others of the East and South who consorted with the Dark Lord, had been exterminated at the close of the War of the Ring.

"Please, Ambassador, let us be seated so that we may continue the negotiations," says the King entreatingly, but the emissary only sneers at him skeptically.

"I have nothing more to say in this council," he says, gesturing to his aide to gather the sheaves of paper in front of him. "I can promise you that my Amir will not take kindly to Steward Elboron's insult, or to your refusal to hand over a partnership in the mines." Without another word, the Harad bodyguards escort the emissary and his aide from the room, slamming the huge oak doors shut behind them.

Elessar looks to be overwrought with displeasure as he shuffles through the papers in front of him. I sit in silence, fuming, waiting for the reprimand that is sure to come.

"It was not your place to address the ambassador as you did," he says at last, his tone brusque. "You will apologize in person to the emissary of Harad, and you will compose a written apology to the Harad Amir."

"You would have me humble my honor before these barbarous tribesmen?" I demand, throwing my quill onto the table.

"Your honor is not as important as Gondor's diplomatic relations with Harad, Steward." The King's voice is colder than I have ever heard when directed towards me. "I do not know where you think you are, but this is not a battlefield in some remote, forsaken outpost in the East! You may be an experienced general, Elboron, and I understand that you are accustomed to pulling rank over subordinates who must obey your every command, but when you are seated at _my _Council table, you would do well to remember that _I _am the King of Gondor. You will _not _disobey a direct order like that ever again!"

Stunned, I do not know at first how to reply. It has been long indeed since someone last gave _me _an order, since I, the Captain-General, am the highest-ranking military officer in Gondor, the with exception of Eldarion and, of course, the King. Horror dawns on me along with the realization of what I have just done—I disobeyed the command of a superior. When did I become so confident in my rank that I lost my grasp on the very principles that comprise my notion of self? Discipline, order, respect… Where are these things in me now?

"Yes, sire," I say with difficulty, too ashamed to meet his gaze. "I am sorry that I acted as I did. But I do not understand how you can tolerate being spoken to in such a manner—as though you were _beneath _him! You are the King of Gondor and Arnor! Surely you have power enough to do whatever you wish and ignore the petty squabbling of the Amir of Harad!"

"Yes, Elboron, I have power enough," says Elessar sternly, "but it is unwise of you to underestimate the damage that could be done to our country should the Amir find reason to turn against us. Your father and I worked tirelessly to secure peace for this nation after the destruction of the Ring and the end of the War, and I grieve now to see Gondor's sons marching off to death in battle. We are fortunate to count the Haradrim among our allies, but if ever that should change, Gondor will be in great peril indeed."

"What? Do you think that Gondor's might could be so easily overturned by the whim of a Southern chieftain?" I ask. "It would take long indeed for any such tribesmen to muster an army worthy of confronting Minas Tirith!"

"As always, Elboron, you think only with your sword and not with your mind!" Elessar interjects sharply. "It is true that the Haradrim do not have armies enough to have any hope of defeating Gondor in battle, but there are other ways to deal out retribution! Despite what you may think, the peoples of the South are shrewd and cunning. They know that by far the easiest method of persuasion is achieved through focus on a single, well-chosen target. It would be easy enough for a Harad bowman in Nurn to single out my son, or yours, or the son of any Gondorian lord. Your cousin Prince Alphros of Dol Amroth makes an even easier target, as he is currently living in Umbar with the Gondorian delegation. Do you suppose that good manners would prevent Amir Arsalan from holding him hostage until I agree to meet his demands?"

My eyes widen at the implications of what Elessar is saying. "He wouldn't dare!"

"Oh, yes, he would dare." The King's voice is now dark and heavy. "I fear it more than aught else at the moment. A message must be sent at once to Eldarion, and another to Alphros." His eyes bore into my own as he looks towards me. "Ever have you looked down upon politicians, Elboron, yet now you see that the job of a politician is often no less dangerous than that of a soldier. Now, come with me."

His words echo in my mind as I follow him from the chamber and down the steps leading from the Council chambers. Could I have just endangered the life of my son, or of my dearest friend or cousin, by my petty rudeness? Is it possible that the rashly-spoken words of one man could cause such a chain reaction? If that is how the inner machinations of politics work, then to the Void with politics and politicians! Any man who would seize a hostage or dispatch an assassin before confronting his enemy with his own strength and will is a coward. Despite Elessar's words, I cannot believe that politicians and soldiers are equals. I cannot, and I will not.

The King and I reach the base of the Tower of Ecthelion and the throne room of Minas Tirith, with its vaulted ceiling supported by somber ranks of stony pillars. A few clusters of lords and their squires stand about the hall, talking amiably with one another, and they look up to see the King and the Steward stride by in haste and with a single focus of purpose.

"Firion! Elenar!" calls the King, summoning two guardsman who stand tall and still like another set of pillars beside the great doors of the Tower of Ecthelion. The two simultaneously raise their arms in salute. Their faces are like granite; their eyes, like those of twin lions. In their hands they clutch two-meter-long glaives, the blades of which glimmer with the cruel sheen of hardened steel. They are members of the King's Guard, the most elite division of the Tower Guard of Minas Tirith. Chain maille hauberks extend to their knees beneath long, black tunics that bear neither emblem nor charge—simple attire, but recognizable enough that no foe would underestimate their precision with a blade. I am proud of Firion and Elenar, and I have every right to be, since I personally trained them.

"Go with Lord Elboron to find the Harad emissary. He is to meet me in the throne room at his earliest convenience. If there is any trouble, I trust you to take care of it," Elessar instructs. Immediately the doors open wide, and I motion to Firion and Elenar to follow me out into the Citadel. Just before I leave, the King catches me by the shoulder, saying, "Elboron, you are a diplomat now. I expect you to act accordingly."

I say nothing, too full of doubt in myself to give the response Elessar expects. Instead, I simply nod, and my heart clenches when I see Elessar's dubious frown.

The Citadel is bustling with folk at this time of day, and it might be difficult indeed to find a small group among the throng, but fortunately the Harad emissary and his escort have not yet gone far. I see them standing a short distance from the Tower, apparently waiting for their horses to be brought up from the stables on the sixth level so that they may ride back through the city to their quarters. When the two Harad bodyguards see me approaching flanked by soldiers of the King's Guard, they reach automatically for their blades. Firion growls and clenches his own weapon more tightly in his fist.

"No," I say brusquely, holding up my hand to stay the tempers of both pairs of guardsmen. "Firion, Elenar—wait here, and look on from a distance." Though neither man likes the idea, they obey my command, watching as I step forward unaccompanied to face the Harad emissary.

"Ambassador," I say tightly, bowing awkwardly at the waist. "I would speak with you privately, if you will permit me."

The flash of some unidentifiable emotion flickers through the eyes of the emissary, but nonetheless he nods and motions to his aide and bodyguards to stand aside. He and I meet halfway between our respective entourages, and for a moment we stand in silence, exchanging wary glances as though testing one another's mettle. Finally, I shift my gaze and clear my throat uncomfortably.

"I wish to apologize for my less than courteous behavior in the Council chambers earlier today," I begin. It takes every ounce of my dignity to go on as I see the emissary's eyes glow with the haughty air of a wild jackal who has cornered its prey. Somehow, I find my inner reserve of calm and continue: "Since the end of the War of the Ring, the Haradrim have been loyal allies of Gondor, and they have proven themselves ours equals in battle. I was out of line to speak as I did, and I ask your forgiveness."

"Well, Steward," drawls the emissary. "Gondorians in their infinite superiority may easily forget when they have been slighted by a commoner, but we mere '_commoners_'do not so easily forget when we have been slighted by a Gondorian. My guardsmen tell me that you, Lord Elboron—or, should I say, General Elboron—were responsible for the torturing of innocent Harad men who stood accused of treachery on the front."

Automatically, I stiffen, and my eyes flicker towards the Harad bodyguards who clench their teeth spitefully and mutter between themselves. After a moment, I return my gaze to the emissary. When I speak, my voice is steely and void of all emotion: "I follow orders. It might be noted that the Harad soldiers in question later confessed to their treachery."

"Men will confess much when subjected to torture, I find," comes the emissary's sharp reply. "Perhaps you, General, have had no personal experience on the more unpleasant side of the interrogation room."

"Conveniently, I have," I answer, my eyes hard. "Not that it is any concern of Harad's."

"It is the concern of the High Amir when it appears that a Gondorian commander is executing his 'orders' against Harad soldiers with particular enthusiasm."

"Well, if I happen to encounter such an instance, I will be sure to inform the High Amir personally," I retort, barely concealing the derision in my tone.

"Unfortunately, General, you won't be given that opportunity."

Perplexed, I begin to ask what exactly he means, but I stop abruptly as the glint of sun upon metal catches the corner of my eye. Somehow I dodge the blade that was aimed for my stomach and seize the emissary by the wrist, yanking him forward so that he loses his balance and stumbles. In the split moment's advantage that I have over my attacker, I plunge my hand inside my robes to seize the hilt of the dagger hidden there. Just as the emissary begins to right himself, I thrust the dagger into his ribcage with a grunt, enjoying the sound of cold steel slicing through his body. When I release him, he staggers backwards, stares at me with eyes full of shock and loathing, and collapses onto the flagstones.

The Harad bodyguards leap forwards, scimitars bared, only to be checked instantly by the crossed glaives of Firion and Elenar. Firion calls out to the nearby Tower Guard for aid as a fight breaks out between the Haradrim and the King's Guard. Women in the encircling crowd cry shrill warnings and snatch their children out of harm's way. Forgotten until now, the emissary's aide shouts something in Harad and runs to kneel beside his fallen master.

"Massoud!" cries the aide, tears welling in his eyes as he shakes the emissary's inert corpse. "Massoud!" Gradually, he realizes that the man is already dead, and he jerks his head up towards me and screams, "Murderer! Gondorian filth! You murdered him!"

"He tried to kill me!" I snarl in return, feeling the adrenaline rush drain from my body as I slide my dagger back into its sheath. "I acted in self-defense!"

"Murderer!" the aide shrieks, lunging towards me with his bare hands outstretched, eyes bulging crazily with hate. I step backwards clumsily, unprepared to confront the vengeful servant of my would-be assassin. Elenar, perceiving the threat, leaves his fight with the Harad guard to restrain the violent aide. Now safe from bodily harm, I stare at the aide as he begins to weep bitter, spiteful tears, yelling insults at me in rapid Harad. The faintest stirrings of empathy pull at my heart—a bizarre emotion that is quite foreign to me. Yet I cannot but pity the creature, here in a land so far from his own, and now bereft of his comrade and master.

Suddenly, the aide arches his neck over Elenar's arm and spits into my face, and the compassion I felt just moments ago vanishes in an instant.

"You murdered Massoud Amjad, emissary of the Amir!" the man hisses. "You will pay for this, Gondorian! You, and your country, will pay dearly indeed!"

Disdainfully, I wipe the spittle from my cheek and turn to glower darkly at the prattling aide. "We shall see which country will pay dearly when my King learns that your Amir's emissary made an attempt on my life."

By now, the Tower Guard reinforcements have arrived, and the two Harad bodyguards are forced to stand down. Elenar maintains a firm grip on the aide, who is still struggling to free himself. Breathing hard, and bearing a long but shallow cut on his arm from the quick fight, Firion turns to me.

"I saw the whole thing, General," he says, nodding sternly. "You were almost skewered by that savage."

I nod, a little shaky now that the situation is under control and I have a moment to consider what almost happened just a few minutes ago. "Yes, well, retrieve the weapon. We'll need it as evidence when we take these three to stand trial before the King."

Firion crouches beside the body of Ambassador Amjad and first checks his vitals to be sure that he is truly dead. After that confirmation is made, Firion gropes near the body. He frowns, and I ask, "What is wrong?"

"General…there is no weapon," Firion says to me, stunned.

"Impossible," I growl. "I saw it with my own two eyes!"

"As did I, General, but…there's nothing here."

"Murderer!" cries the Harad aide once more, now laughing brutally as Elenar and the Tower Guard begin to drag him away to be detained. "Filthy murderer!"

A flicker of fear passes through my heart, and I kneel on the pavement next to the corpse, searching for the blade that almost took my life. It was _there_! I saw it just moments ago! Yet now, as I fumble in the man's pockets and under the folds of his robes, I find nothing.

Slowly, I stand, turning to face Firion and the trio of guardsmen who remain. For a moment, everything falls deathly silent, save for the cackling laughter of the dead man's aide as he is led away. Finally, Firion bows his head and steps forward hesitantly.

"General Elboron…" he begins incredulously. "…I'm afraid I have no choice but to put you under arrest…for the murder of Massoud Amjad."

I say nothing, simply watching as Firion binds my hands and gives orders for a prison cell to be prepared for me. The onlooking crowd whispers and murmurs, their disbelieving eyes flickering towards me, their General and Steward. Before I am led away, I cast one last, wild glance backwards towards the motionless figure of the emissary of Harad. I am certain, absolutely certain, that I saw him attack me with a blade. Firion, too, saw the emissary draw a weapon against me. But where could the weapon have gone?

As my mind begins to speculate about the only remaining conclusion, I start to feel the tightness of panic in my chest. Is it possible that Firion and I could both have been…mistaken?

Oh, Eru…

Have I just murdered an innocent man?

* * *

_ú-pedo!_

(do not speak!) – imperative form; a.k.a. "shut up!"

Author's Note: My description of the Haradrim in this chapter, and my use of the title "Amir" and Persian names, was inspired by my own belief that the Haradrim were intended by Tolkien to represent the peoples of North Africa and the Middle East. (After all, they do come from the South, with the understanding that Middle-Earth is the counterpart of modern Europe, and come on—they ride giant _elephants _into battle!) Any racist undertones you may have picked up on in this chapter were indeed placed here intentionally, but ONLY so as to emphasize Elboron's disdain for the Haradrim as a "lesser" race of "heathen" tribesmen.

For those of you seeking an explanation for this, who believe that surely the son of Faramir is incapable of racism or bigotry, consider this: No one is perfect. Everyone has faults, and one of Elboron's (and of many men of his time, I would imagine) happens to be holding certain prejudices without justifiable cause. Consider how 19th- and 20th-century colonial Europe viewed Africa and the Middle-East—as regions full of uncivilized barbarians who needed to be subdued and disciplined. (I highly recommend Chinua Achebe's novel _Things Fall Apart_ if you are interested in this topic.) Now think of post-Sauron Gondor as the Tolkienian equivalent of colonial Europe. The Fourth Age is the "Age of Man," and as such men will exercise their newfound power and privilege as is their wont. This means that colonialism was probably a high priority for politicians such as those on Aragorn's Council who got Gondor involved in this sixty-five-year-long campaign that I have called the Great Eastern War.

Additionally, I would have you consider that Elboron has served in the Great Eastern War for many years since his youth. While the Haradrim are Gondor's allies against the forces of Khand and Nurn, I imagine that they are none too friendly towards Gondorian soldiers who wander into their lands or challenge their honor, being a very territorial and protective people. Elboron's experiences with Harad soldiers have hardened his already prejudiced view of the so-called "Southrons" as inferior, uncouth, and untrustworthy.

Finally, the emissary Massoud Amjad and his little band here may seem to be portrayed in a very negative light, but bear in mind that they do not represent the majority of the men of Harad. But I don't want to ruin the story. You will learn more about them later. ;)

I would like to make it clear that Elboron's views of the Haradrim DO NOT in any way reflect my own views of individuals of Middle-Eastern descent, African descent, or any other folk whose skin pigmentation happens to be a little darker than my own. We're all sisters and brothers here on this Earth, and we're all in this together whether we like it or not, so we might as well be nice to one another and coexist. Am I right? :)

Finally, I would like to mention that my depiction of the Harad and Gondorian soldiers' armor in this chapter was inspired partly by the incredible artwork of Jan Pospisil. Find him on deviantART, where he goes by the name of Merlkir. You'll be blown away by some of his work on LotR-related concept design. Go check out his gallery!

Thank you for bearing with me through this incredibly lengthy Author's Note, but I believe you will agree that it was both informative and clarifying.

- Minyasta


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